The Papyrus of Nebt Setau
by Len
Summary: JonathanOC: An ancient power returns to Egypt, and it's up to Jonathan to keep that power from falling into the wrong hands. Mayhem ensues, naturally. [CHAPTER 5 IS UP!]
1. The Beginning

Disclaimers:  The Mummy/The Mummy Returns and all the characters of, do not belong to me.  K.P. and all the characters that _weren't_ in the movie do belong to me, unless otherwise indicated.  Feel free to borrow any characters that you like (just let me know!).  Certain elements are borrowed from the fantastic author Elizabeth Peters –  if you're a fan, you'll probably recognize what I'm talking about.  If you've never read the Amelia Peabody series, you'd better put that on your Christmas reading list.

Rating: Let's say PG-13 for now.

Archive:  Sure!  Absolutely!  Just let me know so I can visit!

Feedback:  I'll write this story on demand.  The more feedback I get, the more chapters you get.  I'm such a con artist.  Please oh please tell me what you think!!

Thanks: Eternally, to Fox for the beta and all the folks over at The Mummy list (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/The_Mummy ) for inspiration and support.  By the way, there's one heck of a RPG goin' on over there now – check it out, and join!

A/N:  This occurs after 'The Mummy Returns' and is, I feel I should warn you, a Jonathan Fic.  I like Jonathan, I think he deserves a little happiness.  The O'Connell Family and some other staple Mummy characters may make an appearance.  Also – clichéd, you say?  What else would you expect from me?  Clichés are fun!

**The Papyrus Of Nebt-Setau**

By Len 

Saith Osiris Ani, triumphant:  Lady of Terrors, lofty of walls, sovereign lady, mistress of destruction, disposer of words which repulse destroyers, delivering from destruction the traveler along the way.

- The Book Of The Dead, Papyrus of Ani.  Translation by E.A. Wallis Budge

Thebes, 2279 B.C.

   Her bare feet made no sound on the stone as she hurried though the hall.  She moved, not with the grace of a princess, but with the confidence borne of wisdom and experience.  Reaching the back of the hall, she sat, folding long legs under herself.  Then she picked up the stylus.

   Time was running out – she could feel it.  The person was always standing just out of sight, in the wings, in the shadows.  Watching her. Waiting for his chance.

   Murmuring the magical words under her breath, Nebt-Setau finished writing the spell, and sighed.  Only one more thing to do, and then all would be safe.  She had faithfully served Seti for ten years, and she had no intention of failing the Pharaoh after death.  But the shadow was coming for her, and she knew her only strength lay in words.

   "Lady," a voice said, echoing through the uncomfortably cavernous hall.  Nebt-Setau looked up.  A man, dressed in the robes of a commoner stood next to her, appearing out of thin air. He was a thief, but oddly enough, the only one she trusted.

  "Djer," she smiled affectionately, extending a hand.  The thief cautiously took it, emotion over-riding common sense.  He knew that the penalty for being caught in the Lady's presence, much less in physical contact, would be great.  But he had a feeling that the human side of Her was aching for human contact.  He could see it in her eyes.  And it was the least he could do.

   "You sent for me, Kiya?" he asked, using the name she had told him when they first met – in the market place.

   "Yes.  He still watches me.  And I'm going to die soon."

   Djer blinked and almost squeezed her hand painfully.  "What?  He won't – there must be some way we can stop him.  Let me help you, Kiya.  We can destroy him."

   She smiled, but the smile never reached her eyes.  Green and gold – very unusual eyes, the mark of a God.  Rebirth, power, knowledge, life, magic.  "We can.  But I will not survive, and I'll need you to do something for me.  Will you?"

   "Anything."

   "Guard this," she directed, pressing something into his hand.  "You must not let it fall into the possession of Montuemhat.  Without it, my power cannot be used.  The spells are useless."

   "But-" he swallowed, trying to understand how his Lady was able to embrace her own death so easily.  He himself spent everyday trying to avoid that very same condition.  "But why not just destroy the spells?  Destroy this?" he asked, unfolding his fingers from around the lapis and gold amulet.  

   "Because they may be needed.  If there ever comes a time when the Pharaoh's land is in peril, my power will return to this world to fight.  The spells and the amulet will be needed."

   "But they can also be used for evil."

   "That's right.  Magic's rather odd, isn't it Djer?  But I won't have to worry about that – I have you to protect against it."

   The words were said with a conviction and trust that the thief had never heard before, and icy fingers of grief curled around his soul.  What would he do without his old friend?  "You do.  My service – my heart – is yours forever." 

   Nebt-Setau's eyes widened at the depth of emotion she heard from the usually joking man.  It soothed her like a warm ray of sun and the last of her fears were calmed.  She gazed up at Djer, extending a hand until it just brushed his chest, right above his heart.  "And mine is yours.  Forever."

   Endless moments passed before the sounds of approaching footsteps interrupted them.  "You must go.  And thank you, Djer."

   He nodded, and started to move back into the shadows.  But not before throwing her a decidedly roguish wink.  A sudden feeling had come over him.  He knew he'd be seeing Kiya again.

   She was smiling when Monuemhat's priests came marching into the hall to take her away.  

Alexandria, Egypt.  1934 

    She never realized how much she loved land.  She loved absolutely everything about it.  The solidity, the smell, the dust, the small bits of trash scattered here and there…if there hadn't been so many people around, she would have dropped to her knees and kissed it.  Well…maybe not…but very nearly. 

    As it was, the Alexandria pier was quite crowded, smelling vaguely of rotting fish and burnt bread.  The woman took a deep breath and looked around.  So this was Egypt.  It was…what was it?

   Katherine looked around as she regained her land legs, attempting to put her impressions in sentence form.  Dusty streets and honking motorcars, fish, well-dressed travelers and raggedy dock workers, more fish…she stared off into space, smiling.  Then without warning, she found herself flying off her feet and into her neatly stacked suitcases.

   "Will you _please_ watch where you're going?" she demanded, glaring at her assailant.  The camel simply grunted, but its turbaned jockey glared right back.  He shouted something that sounded like, "Sit on a shell a porky road."  The words she couldn't understand – but the tone was one easily recognizable the world over.  It was the "Go bake a muffin, woman" tone, and it was part of the reason she left the States in the first place.  Summoning all her dignity, she stood, dusted off her suit, and brushed past the camel to retrieve her luggage.

    It was fine luggage, she reflected.  The last wholly unnecessary purchase she had made in the states.  If she was to become a world famous, globetrotting journalist, she should have the accessories.  Plus, her father had always preached on the value of good luggage – it keeps the thieves out, and hell – it could even save your life some day!  

   She traced the monogram on the corner of one tooled-leather bag, feeling her name, K. Pennington, beneath her fingers.  Yes, this was the last bit of luxury she could afford.  And the steamer ticket had been nearly the last bit of _anything_ she could afford, which was why this scheme had to work.  It simply had to.

    Katherine heaved up her bags and made her way towards the train station.  She was destined for Cairo.  That was where the story of a lifetime was presently residing, waiting for the winter excavation season to begin.  

Just Outside Cairo, Egypt

   "Uncle Jon!  Uncle Jon!" Alex yelled, running into the room like a small whirlwind.  "Guess what?"

   His Uncle Jon looked up from the newspaper he was currently pursuing.  He'd been hoping to find a couple of arrest notices for some of his more unpleasant…acquaintances.  Unfortunately there had only been one, but Jonathan breathed a sigh of relief that Abdul El-Bassim was, at least for the moment, in police custody. The more bars and walls between that fellow and himself, the better, he figured.

   "Don't tell me…don't tell me…" he pretended to think hard, "I know…You've been digging in the garden and stumbled across the lost tomb of Haremhab?" he asked.

   This brought a smile to young Alex's face.  "No!  Mum and Dad are going to the museum today and said I could go with you to town!"

   Jonathan waited with raised eyebrows for Alex to explain why that was a _good_ thing.  Unfortunately, his nephew decided to leave this part to his imagination and continued to jump up and down.

   "Town?" Jonathan said weakly.  "Alex, why on earth would you want to go and loiter around that old place?"

   Alex plopped down in the chair across from him.  "I dunno.  Why do _you_ like loitering around that old place?  Hey – I know!  You could take me to a play!"

   "No…." the man imagined what his sister's reaction would be if she found out he'd taken her eldest child to one of the "plays" around Cairo.  He was sure a lecture would be the least of it.  And after last night, he really wasn't in the mood for any more violence.  His ribs ached with every breath.

   "Okay, then where do you want to go?  C'mon, Uncle Jon, you can't stay cooped up at home all day!"

   Why not?  It seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea to him.  He felt like he'd been given a thorough going-over with a cricket bat.  In fact, he wasn't at all sure that that _wasn't_ what had happened…

   Oh.  Alex was still talking.  Jonathan decided to pay more attention to the young whippersnapper, or he may find himself agreeing to something that his sister Evie would not approve of.

   "…new specimens.  I've run out.  Kalila chucked the last lot I had sitting on the bureau."

   Kalila was frequently "chucking" things Alex brought into the house, and constantly complaining about the mess.  Jonathan himself didn't quite understand why the housekeeper made such a fuss – boys will be boys, after all, and a little dirt never hurt anyone.  Not that Jonathan himself was terribly fond of being dirty, but he fondly remembered the joy that a nine year old can find at the bottom of a mud puddle.  He smiled indulgently at his energetic young nephew.  No need to ruin the child's fun now – that would happen soon enough when he was shipped off to school again.

   "Righto, old boy," he said, dropping the paper on the table and standing.  "You've sold me.  To the bazaar it is, then."

   "Ripper!" Alex cried.  "Hang on – let me just go get…" he sprinted out of the room, causing a few papers to flutter off a desk and dust to swirl up into the air, reflecting the noon sun.  Egypt was a terribly dusty country, Jonathan mussed, for no particular reason.

Shepherds Hotel, Cairo

   It was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon before Katherine was able to summon the energy to leave her hotel room.  The train ride really hadn't been too bad, apart from the rather incredible amount of dust.  Egypt was a terribly dusty country.  She hoped it wouldn't ruin her photography equipment.  

   The train came a stop at the Cairo station – _Bab El-Hadid_, which according to Katherine's guidebook was right in the heart of Cairo.  She stepped from the train, clutching her bags, and looked around in wonderment at the bustling station and the pyramids she could see in the skyline.  She had finally made it!  If only her father could see her now – he would have been so proud.

   Her father, Arthur Pennington, had been a newspaper correspondent for nearly thirty-five years.  Egypt, China, Kenya, Turkey, Brazil, Australia…there was scarcely a country on the planet that he hadn't visited and written about.  It was this wandering life-style that brought about his eventual end, in fact.  He'd contracted some rare and exotic disease in Siam during his last assignment, and it quickly took hold of his body.

    Now Katherine shook her head sadly as she examined her reflection in the hotel mirror.  Her father had died quietly the previous June, leaving Katherine with a small inheritance, a wanderlust of her own, and his blessing to "go forth and write".

   The latter proved to be more difficult than she had imagined.  Even in these modern times, female journalists were few and far between.  Editors simply didn't want to hire them for any other position than society writers.

   Katherine made a face at the mirror, and squinted at her sunburned nose.  She had served her time on the society circuit, and actually done quite well.  But it wasn't exciting – she'd hated it.  And last year, in the middle of describing Pinky Titherton's new gown down to the last gaudy sequin, she abruptly decided she would rather gnaw off her own hand than ever write for the society column again.

   This she told her editor the next day.  Then she told him she'd like to be considered for the position of Times' correspondent to Austria.  After all, she spoke good German, and with the reports she'd been hearing from other journalists, the Times should have another man – or woman, as it were – over there.  Mr. Kelley laughed, said if she didn't like where she was she could leave.  So Katherine told him to go boil his head, and then packed up her desk.

   It had been a damn-fool thing to do.  Times were tough, and any job – even that of a society writer – was a godsend.  But now, thanks to her own big mouth, she was unemployed.  Way to go, Kate, she thought sarcastically.

   Katherine sighed again at her reflection.  She tried to flatten her curly brown hair and failed.  One didn't need to look beautiful to visit bazaars, but it wouldn't do to resemble something the cat dragged in.  Good grief – was it any wonder no one wanted to hire her?  She hardly looked professional!

   Well, she would show them.  She would net the O'Connell interview, and bring it to the National Geographic Society on a silver platter.  They'd have to take her seriously then.

   The only trouble would be getting Dr. O'Connell to talk to her.  It was well-known that the Egyptologist was more than a little camera-shy when it came to her personal field discoveries.  In fact, no journalist yet had managed to get an interview with her.  Nor was there any solid documentations of her recent work, as Dr. O'Connell's field journal from the '32-'33 season had been lost in a sandstorm, and the dig itself hadn't been successful.  Or so the Cairo Museum curator had claimed in his wire.

   Normally Katherine would accept this explanation.  But there were rumors that Dr. O'Connell and her family _had_ made a fabulous discovery.  Yet, no proof.  Not a particle.  When she added that to the British Museum being ransacked the very same night of the O'Connells abrupt departure for Egypt…well, Katherine suspected something odd was going on.  She had enough sense to know that scholars didn't simply "lose" their findings, and that brick buildings didn't explode on their own.  Yes, it was certainly very odd…

Midan Ataba Bazaar, Cairo

   Jonathan looked around the bazaar frantically.  He'd lost him.  Evie was going to be furious.  Rick was going to skin him alive!  How in heaven's name was he going to explain this?

   "Alex!" he yelled over the noise of the traders.  A large woman in a dark robe apparently took this as her cue to wave a handful of incense under his nose.  He sneezed.   "Oh – no thank you…er…_La_ _shukran_," he said, declining politely and backing away.  She shrugged and pounced on the people behind him.  He resumed the search.

   "Alex!  Oh, for God's sake, come out!  This isn't funny!" he yelled, continuing to push through the crowds.  "Alex!"  

   This certainly wasn't funny.  His nephew had picked up on Jonathan's genius for getting into scrapes, but hadn't yet learned how to get _out_ of them.  And after recent events, Jonathan really didn't want the boy out of his sight.  No telling what could happen to him.  Oh, if he'd only taught Alex to avoid people who wished to cause bodily harm!  Rick had been responsible for teaching his son certain self-defense techniques, but when your assailants were three times your size, Jonathan doubted that those would help much.

   Jonathan had a brief flash of all the horrible things that could be happening to his nephew at that moment.  If Abdul El-Bassim and his associates really wanted revenge, there would be no greater revenge then for them to harm Alex.  He only hoped that they didn't have enough sense to realize that.

   What was truly unfair about the entire El-Bassim predicament was that Jonathan hadn't _done_ anything.  Sure he'd given good old Abdul a sound whipping at the card table.  But, by gad, he'd done it honestly.   

   El-Bassim, as it turned out, was a rotten loser.  Jonathan had discovered this when some of his men had plucked him out of an Imad ad-Din nightclub last night and dragged him to a nearby alley.  It had been nearly three a.m. before he was able to return home, so fortunately none of his family had witnessed his state of disarray.  

    Oh ho!  There was an antique seller!  Alex was probably there, haggling happily with the merchant.  Jonathan had probably been worrying unnecessarily…yes, there was his little tow-headed nephew now…

   "Ow!" somebody squeaked.  Jonathan looked down, and discovered he was standing on the foot of a rather attractive young lady.  She was glaring at him – and she had beautiful eyes, the color of the sea with ribbons of gold…Gold was such a lovely color, wasn't it?

   "Excuse me," she said, interrupting his thoughts, "but that happens to be my foot you're treading on!"

   Jonathan immediately stepped back, embarrassed.  "Oh!  Terribly sorry!  Here – let me get that for you—" he stooped to retrieve her handbag, then returned it with a flourish.  She reminded him of someone – or perhaps they had met before?  He considered asking if she had been at the nightclub last night, and decided against it.  

   She took the bag.  "Thank you."

   "Not at all.  I'll – er – I'd best be on my way then." Before he left, he reached up as if to tip his hat and realized he wasn't wearing one.  To make matters worse, he could feel her eyes on him as he stumbled and tripped his way through the crowds.  

   "Uncle Jon!" Alex exclaimed.  "Look what I've found!  An almost exact match to the one Kalila chucked!  What luck!"

   "Eh?  Jolly good, jolly good," he said, patting the boy on the head and sneaking one last look over his shoulder.  The woman was gone.  Jonathan sighed.  "Ready to head back?  I'm sure your mum will be wanting to discuss matters with you."

   Alex forked over an amount of money, and nodded.  "Sure thing.  Thanks for taking me here, Uncle Jon.  I really appreciate it."  This thanks, issued with Alex's childish, lisping solemnity, made Jonathan grin.  

   "Don't mention it, my boy."  

   As Alex chattered on about his remarkable find, Jonathan scanned the crowds.  Perhaps it was fatigue, perhaps paranoia, but he had been certain he'd caught sight of one of last night's attackers, slipping behind one of the stalls.

   You're getting old, Carnahan.  The eyes are always the first thing to go, they say…or was it the memory?  He couldn't remember, but either way it proved his point…

   Then his nephew tugged on his sleeve, and he forgot about it.

~*~

   Katherine watched the retreating man and forlornly examined her handbag, which had been dropped and then trampled when he bumped into her.  He'd looked vaguely familiar; although with his kind smile and laughing eyes, it was unlikely he was one of the swells she had written of on the society beat.  All the same, he seemed familiar…and of course, he had stood on her.  Kate decided that if she wasn't going to get taller – and at twenty-nine, it was likely she was not – she should put on some weight.  She was sick and tired of get jostled and sat on, and pushed over, and…

   She continued pacing in front of the stalls, grumbling all the while.  She had been instructed to come to the Midan Ataba bazaar by her contact from the British Embassy – a Mr. Charles McNally.  He would meet her there at three o'clock sharp with, as he put it, bells on.  

   Katherine passed the point of caring _what_ he had on twenty minutes ago.  The Egyptian afternoon sun, even in winter, was baking.  Where was he?  She scowled, and a woman in a large black robe apparently took this as her cue to shove a handful of some sort of aromatic substance under her nose.  She sneezed and backed away, shaking her head, but the woman followed her.  "No thanks…um…nein…um…oh heck – how much?"  

   The Arabic woman held up three fingers.  Katherine withdrew the amount from her purse, and was given a neatly tied bag of the stuff.  She shook it dubiously, and then went back to scanning the crowds for her contact.

   When he suggested they meet in a slightly out-of-the way location, she'd realized the difficulty this presented.  How do you locate a person you've never met before?  McNally solved this by asking for her hair color and measurements.  The twit.  Naturally, she'd told him she was a brunette and hung up.

   Patience was something she really needed to work on, she decided, kicking idly at the dust.  Now it would take a miracle for him to find her….

   "Miss Pennington?"  Katherine spun around.  Goodness.  That was a little startling.  Even more startling was the fact that she had to crane her neck at a painful angle just to be able to make out the Scotsman's face.

   McNally had a rather florid complexion, but still appeared cool and collected despite the temperature.  Of course, he'd probably only just stelled out from his nice cool office.  Kate fought the urge to pummel him with her handbag.  "Mr. McNally, I presume?" she asked, smiling politely.  "I'm happy you could make it."

   He reminded her of a large orange grizzly bear.  "Sorry to keep you waiting.  You weren't waiting long, I hope?"

   "Only half an hour."

   "Good, good.  How about a bite to eat?" he asked, pulling her arm through his and towing her away from the bazaar.  "Or some tea?"

   He was leading her through traffic and across the street.  Katherine tried, unsuccessfully, to retrieve her arm.  "Actually, I'm fine.  I was hoping we could get down to business?"

   "How about a coffee?  You should relax a little, Miss Pennington.  As the natives say, bugra."

   Kate smirked.  "You mean _bukkra_, Mr. McNally?  Tomorrow?"

   His only response was a growl, and a sharp tug on her arm.  He pushed open the door of a coffee shop to the cheerful tinkle of a bell.  Kate took stock of her surroundings.  It was a bizarre mix of the east and west; traditional wall hangings were displayed next to Coca-Cola "Around The Corner From Anywhere" promotional signs, men sucked on Nargilehs while sitting next to a soda jerk.  McNally shouted out an order to an invisible waiter, this time in Arabic that was well outside the range of her Baedeker guide.

   He left her to seat herself, and sat down in one of the precariously constructed chairs with a thud.  "So, you want to know about Evelyn O'Connell, eh?"  McNally asked her, tapping a tattoo on the tabletop.  He had very small hands for a man his size, she noted.

     
 "That's right.  To begin with, where can I find her?  I've heard that she has a winter home on the outskirts of Cairo."

   McNally shook his head.  "Laidee – I wouldn't dare set foot on their property, if I were you. That Mr. O'Connell threw the last reporter who tried down a flight of stairs.  Sprained his writing hand, too." 

   "But surely with the right approach –"

   "No.  Try the Museum.  She's there most days, and O'Connell can't call you a trespasser if you're on public land.  But look out for him anyway."

   "I'm sure I'll be fine, Mr. McNally," Kate said with more confidence than she felt.  _Threw him down a flight of stairs_?

   The orange-haired man shrugged.  "I never disagree with a lady," he said.  "But you watch yourself.  I would hate to see an international incident."

   Kate felt something touch her ankle, and her eyes narrowed.  'I'll show you an international incident, you lecherous—' she thought.

   "Well, Mr. McNally, I was hoping there was something else you could tell me.  After all, you do have the insider's advantage…"

   The coffee arrived.  Kate recognized it as Turkish – her father had been quite fond of it while he'd been alive.  However, it had the consistency of syrup, and just the small amount held in the tiny cups was enough to evoke a coughing fit.  McNally offered her a cup.  She shook her head, so he downed both of them in quick succession.

   "As a matter of fact," he gasped out, his face turning even redder, "I do have a few more words for the wise.  O'Connell's brother – Carnahan – stay away from him.  He's a notorious lounge lizard if I ever saw one.  Word on the street is he's in trouble."

   Kate was tempted to inquire how a man of McNally's size and abrasive temperament was able to get reliable street news, but refrained.  "Trouble?  Like with the police?"

   McNally stood, and smiled down wolfishly.  "Och no.  No police.  Abdul El-Bassim."

   "Who's that?"

   "He's jus' the leader of the largest crime ring in Cairo.  Or he's suspected of being.  People who get mixed up with him don' usually live to point any fingers."

   Without another word he left the coffee shop.  Kate sat and studied the stains on the table, trying to put her picture of the O'Connell/Carnahan family together.  Exploding museums, rumors of locust infestations, mysterious funding…and the brother, who was in trouble again.

   Rumors, rumors, rumors.  Hardly the stuff from which good stories were made.  None of it fit…unless…hmm…

   Kate ordered a coca-cola but never got a chance to drink it.  Because as she sat there putting all the pieces together, a seedy-looking man walked in through the front door of the café, picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, and walked out through the kitchens.  Kate was so surprised she didn't even put up a struggle.

The Egyptian Museum, Cairo 

   The Egyptian Museum, a palatial structure located on the rather busy Maydan El Tahrir, was the O'Connell family's favorite haunt.  After all, who needed the French Riviera when you could spend your vacation in stacks of dusty books and rotting bits of bone, Jonathan wondered.  Alex had practically grown up there, and could walk the halls blindfolded without creating any of the accident-induced havoc that seemed to plague his Uncle.

   The moment they crossed the threshold, the boy took off like a shot, leaving Jonathan behind to try and soothe the annoyed tourists.  For pity's sake, he thought, the place wasn't a church.  Make one tiny peep and they're all ready to toss you out on your—

   "Jonathan Carnahan?" A slightly accented voice ground out.  Jonathan felt a prickle of alarm that coincidentally coincided with the prick of a knife blade being applied to his ribs.

   "Er – sorry.  Wrong man.  I think you just missed – oof!  Hey there – steady on!"  

   The objection had, as he'd predicted, no affect whatsoever.  The accented man and his cohort each took an arm and carried him into the less popular Papyri Room, with Jonathan smiling apologetically at the now very annoyed tourists.

   The lighting in that room, in order to preserve the ancient manuscripts, was very poor – precisely the lighting preferred by thugs the world 'round, Jonathan thought.  Then he winced as they slammed him into a wall.

   "Where is it?" the larger of the two men growled, pressing the tip of another knife into Jonathan's throat just hard enough to draw blood.  

   "Where is what?  You know, there are maps available in the lobby if you want to find a particular—"

   "The papyrus.  What have you done with it?"

   The Englishman grinned nervously.  "I say, chaps, I really don't know what you're talking about, but perhaps if you put me down we can discuss this over drinks?"

   This was perhaps not the best approach.  The two put him back on his feet and grinned menacingly at him.  The larger one, he noted, had two gold teeth that gave him the look of an overgrown, ugly, chipmunk.

   Summoning up the absolute last particle of bravado he possessed, Jonathan laughed nervously.  "You don't drink, then?  Fair enough.  How about dinner?  Lunch?  Afternoon tea?"

   Chipmunk cracked his knuckles.  Jonathan gulped.   

   And then quite suddenly, Chipmunk Man's eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the floor.  

   Not one to let opportunity pass him by, Jonathan felled the other attacker with a strategically placed kick.  Then he looked over at his rescuer, and his eyes widened in surprise.

   It was the woman from the bazaar.  Standing over the unconscious man, she looked worriedly at the statuette in her hand.  "Oh no - I hope I haven't broken it!"

   Jonathan took it from her and examined it.  "Not at all.  Bronze, you see?" he tapped on it and was rewarded with a ringing sound.  "The goddess Sekhmet, no less.  Egyptian goddess of War."

   Kate giggled.  She wasn't normally a giggler, but she'd just been abducted, robbed, and assaulted.  To top that off, she'd just had her first knock out.  She figured it was fair that her nerves be a little strained.  "How very appropriate.  Should we leave, do you think?  That one seems to be getting up."

   The man was certainly trying to.  He managed to get to his feet, still doubled over and whimpering slightly.  Kate thought she saw a faint glimmer of sympathy cross the Englishman's face, and then he politely guided her out of the room.  And slammed the door shut behind him.  Then he stuck a chair under the doorknob, and sat in it.

   "Whew!" he said, taking out a handkerchief with a flourish and wiping his face with it. Kate gestured vaguely.  

   "You…er…you missed a spot."  At his confused look, she spelled it out for him.  "You're bleeding.  Your throat."

   "Eh?  Oh!  So I am.  Vicious buggers, those fellows."  The door behind him thudded, and Kate winced.  Jonathan grinned broadly and leaned back in the chair.  "We're perfectly safe, I imagine.  He's wedged in tight.  Basic physics, my dear – that's all you need to out-wit these muscle-brained brutes—"

   Even as the words were coming out of his mouth, Jonathan recognized the folly of uttering them.  Sure enough, a volley of machine-gun fire immediately erupted from the Papyri Room, followed by a crash.  And then – nothing but blackness.

TBC in chapter two (entitled 'Damnation – not another pair of cursed lovers!'), wherein Kate reveals many troubling bits of information including how she happened to be Jonathan's Janey-On-The-Spot, we may or may not meet the villain, and an ancient prophesy is discovered.


	2. Swiss Cheese and Whiskey

Thanks for all the lovely feedback from part one.  Sorry about the wait on this – I was going to wait to post until something exciting happened in the story, but what the heck:  Here's some fun plot background/development. 

Also:  Sorry about the format – I have no idea why those little numbers have sprung up everywhere….

Feedback is, as always, begged for.  Pleeeeeaaaasssseeeee??????

Chapter Two 

   Kate watched in horror as the heavy oak door exploded into a shower of splinters, and Jonathan Carnahan was thrown forward onto the tile floor.  Bullets embedded themselves into the dark paneling on the opposite side of the hall, whizzing past her head.  She threw herself to the ground.

   And ended up face to face, again, with the one person she really had hoped to avoid while on this story.  Why oh why did this have to happen to her?  Carnahan wasn't moving – and this was probably in some way related to the blood trickling down his forehead.  She patted his cheek urgently.  "Mr. Carnahan?  Mr. Carnahan!"  He didn't even twitch.  "Wake up!  Oh…oh _heck_…." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the turbaned attacker fully recovered and wielding a nasty looking machine gun.  He looked left, then right, then down at the two prone figures at his feet.  A truly evil smile spread across his face, and he stepped through the destroyed door…

   …And right into someone's fist.  He fell like a log.  Right on top of the prone Englishman.

   Kate scrambled to her feet to greet her rescuer, seeking the comfort of height against possible further danger.  The man was ruggedly handsome, blond, with intense blue eyes…  This description along with the revolvers that were rather obviously concealed beneath a light linen jacket all led to the same horrifying conclusion.  She'd just been rescued from certain death by Richard O'Connell.

   Swell.  She rose to her full height of five feet, four inches, and tried to smile charmingly at the man who towered over her.  Best to get on his good side now, because once he found out what she was doing in Cairo, he was obviously physically capable of picking her up and throwing her anywhere he chose.  Like down a flight of stairs.

   Before she could say anything, a crowd began to gather around them and Carnahan started to come to.  "Get off me, Sarah," he muttered weakly, shoving at the turbaned man.  Kate grabbed his attacker by the neck of his robe.  As she tugged, she made sure to accidentally drop his head on the floor, several times, before turning back to the man laying face first on the marble tile.  He cracked open one hazel eye.  "Bloody mutt…"

   O'Connell shook his brother-in-law once before impatiently slapping him across the face.  The darker man opened his eyes.  "Ow!  What the hell do you think you're…oh.  It's you."

   Rick grinned ferally at him, and helped him to his feet.  "Yeah, it's me.  Do you mind telling me what the _hell_ you've done this time, Jonathan?"

   Jonathan raised a hand and gingerly tested the back of his head.  "Ow.  Thanks very bloody much for your concern, brother-of-mine."

   "Don't think Evelyn's going to get you out of this one.  Now what. Have. You. Done?"  Kate watched Rick accentuate each word with a sharp jab to the chest.  Jonathan winced and sucked in a breath.  Then he drew himself up and tried to look offended.  The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he was refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

   "I haven't _done_ anything!  I swear!" he insisted.

   "Well someone seems to think you did," Rick growled.  "Evelyn nearly fell off a ladder when she heard the gunfire.  You scared her half to death."

   "I didn't ask them to shoot me!" he said, offended.  "And what are you doing letting Evie on a ladder for, in her condition?"

   "I can't exactly tell her 'no', can I?"  Suddenly, O'Connell seemed to realize exactly how many ears were listening in on their little argument.  He smiled unconvincingly at the crowd.  "Thanks, folks. Our next show's at five.  Oh – you there!" he directed toward three burly-looking museum guards.  "Wanna clean this up?  Take these two guys away?  Thanks."

   Once the crowd dispersed and the two groggy assailants were led away, Rick clapped a hand on Jonathan's shoulder.  "Now.  Let's go talk to your sister, huh?"

   The gesture caused Jonathan to wince again, and suddenly Kate couldn't contain herself any longer.  It was bad enough that he seemed to have disregarded her existence – actually, considering her size, she was rather used to that.  But it was obvious that his brother-in-law was in a fair amount of pain.  "Hey!  Lay off him, will you?" she asked, pushing O'Connell's hand away.  The man turned to her with raised eyebrows.  "Can't get any answers out of him if he's unconscious," she added rather lamely.  O'Connell continued to stare.  What the heck, she thought.  In for a penny, in for a pound.  "I think he's got broken ribs."

  Jonathan decided that today's little adventure hadn't helped matters any, but he still seemed relatively intact.  "Nonsense – just a bit of bruising, is all," he replied, staring with positively scientific intent at a cow statue displayed on a nearby pedestal.  Rick looked between them suspiciously.

  "Okay Jonathan – who's the skirt?"

   "Skirt?!"

  Jonathan smiled at her response and looked her in the eye for the first time since the door exploded.  "I rather think she's my guardian angel.  You certainly look like one," he added with a charm completely at odds with his appearance.  

   Kate tried to scowl.  Was there a big sign on her forehead that said 'Feed me a line – I'm a sucker'?  She knew enough about Jonathan Carnahan and his ilk through sources and her own experience.  The fact that he was obviously suffering from the after-effects of a recent beating only served to support the warning issued by McNally.  T-R-O-U-B-L-E.  And yet she found herself blushing at the ridiculous compliment, anyway.

   "My name's Kate Pennington, Mr. O'Connell.  Oh, and thanks for the, you know-" she made a little punching gesture, and felt immediately silly.

   O'Connell raised an eyebrow.

   Meanwhile, Jonathan was considering his options.  The fact that this woman had happened to arrive in the nick of time to save him from what was undoubtedly going to be a nasty pounding was very odd.  Odd enough to make him wonder if she wasn't somehow involved – that would explain the sense of familiarity he'd felt earlier in the bazaar.  She may have been watching him at the nightclub.  It probably wouldn't hurt to see what tidbits of information he charm out of her.  At the very worst, she was an (Jonathan checked for a handbag or bulky clothing, and seeing none, relaxed considerably) _unarmed_ associate of El-Bassim; at best, she was a lovely woman with whom it would do his pride well to be seen.

   On the other hand, he could remain behind and suffer through another one of his sister's lectures.

   Inevitably, the young lady before him won out.

   "Miss Pennington?" he asked, offering his arm.  "I wonder if I might have the honor of escorting you back to your hotel?"

   She gave him a long look with those remarkable green eyes of hers, and then took his arm.  "Thank you, Mr. Carnahan.  Mr. O'Connell, wonderful meeting you.  I'm sure I'll see you around."

   Together, they swept out of the museum, and into the warm dusty air of the Maydin El Tahrir.  Once outside, Kate withdrew her arm.  Jonathan chose not to comment, instead beginning to shake the splinters from his now bloodied linen jacket.

   "Little buggers get in the most uncomfortable places," he explained, catching her amused look when he started to flap around like a chicken.  "Although it's as much my fault as anything.  I wonder where he hid the Tommy?  Did you see it?"

   "No," Kate said.  "Maybe he was hiding it under his turban."

   He chuckled and then realized that Katherine was not smiling.  In fact, her eyes were narrowed furiously.  Jonathan had just enough time to duck out of the way before she took a swing at him.  "They nearly killed me because of you!  How can you be so lackadaisical about that?  You were almost shot!  A lot!  Do the words 'Swiss cheese' mean anything to you?" she shouted up at him.

   "Um…only very unpleasant things, I must admit.  And I *did* apologize for putting you in the line of fire like that, but then I really had no idea that they were going to shoot through it—"

   "No, you didn't."

   Jonathan stopped mid-babble.  "Eh?"

   "Apologize.  You didn't."

   "Oh!"  He blinked.  "Well!  I'm very sorry then, Miss Pennington."

   "No need to apologize, Mr. Carnahan."  Kate sniffed gentiley.  "It wasn't really your fault."

   "But…then why…?"

   "Because I'm still ticked about the *other* time someone nearly killed me today!"  She gestured to her clothes in one angry downward sweep of her arms.  "Do you think I look like this all the time?  Someone attacked me only fifteen minutes after you *stepped* on me in the bazaar!  And I want to know why!"

   He looked at her closely as if attempting to judge her sincerity.  What he saw was a disheveled, shaken but truthful young woman.  Jonathan decided to trust her.  For a while, at least.  "Perhaps, Miss Pennington, this is not the best place to discuss this…" he muttered, taking her elbow and guiding her across the street.

   "So you do know what I'm talking about!"

   "I've absolutely no idea," he lied smoothly.  "But you're quite obviously distressed, which is perfectly natural, and—"

   Kate silenced him with a glare.  His shoulders slumped.  "All right, all right.  I might have an _inkling_ of what is going on.  But not here.  I think we could both use a stiff drink."

   His companion nodded cautiously, but said, "Make it a cola and you have a deal, Mr. Carnahan."

Shepheard's Hotel, Cairo 

   Jonathan sat with his back to the wall of Shepheard's ornate front lobby.  This type of behavior was much more characteristic of his rough-and-ready brother-in-law than himself.  Being well aware of his shortcomings, Jonathan was just as aware that if someone ever got it into their head to kill him they could do it just as easily face-to-face as from behind.  Certainly not the most cheerful bit of wisdom, but one acquired honestly during his thirty-seven year career of upsetting entirely the wrong people.

   This time wasn't any different.  El-Bassim wasn't any high-hat tourist or native hoodlum he'd out-witted at the local kasbah.  He was the leader of a crime ring that was rumored to extend across the entire Middle East.  He was just as deadly in prison as out – and even the "in prison" bit was bound to expire within the next couple days.  The man had connections.  And if Jonathan hadn't been so intent on the card game, he would have put two and two together, and realized that fat merchants named Mohammed didn't usually have body guards.  

   Unfortunately, between the drinks and the thrill of winning, intelligence hadn't made much of a showing three nights ago.  So now Jonathan had a rather weighty problem on his hands.  Unless he was going daft, last night's beating hadn't been the end of his association with the crime lord, because he was almost certain he and Miss Pennington had been followed to the hotel.  And if this was indeed the case, he certainly didn't trust any of El-Bassim's henchmen to kill him cleanly.  

   Hence, the back to the wall.

   Although the Englishman was ardently hoping that his death, clean or otherwise, wouldn't enter into it.  

   A native waiter wearing a tuxedo and a fez arrived with their drinks, breaking the tension-filled silence.  Over the rim of his glass of whiskey, Jonathan watched Miss Pennington in a brown study of her own.  She felt his gaze and looked up.

   "Well?" she asked.  He was fiddling with his glass and looking perfectly calm, almost bored.  At her prompting he gave her a confused glance and took another drink.  Fine.  If he wanted to be like that…she took a deep breath and folded her hands on her lap.  Then she began.

Katherine's Story Previously, The Midan Ataba Bazaar 

   Kate ordered a coca-cola after watching McNally depart, but never got a chance to drink it.  Because as she sat there attempting to put all the pieces together, a weedy man walked in through the front door of the café, picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, and walked out through the kitchens.  Kate was so surprised she didn't even put up a struggle.

   The street alternated between rushing at her face and pulling away sickeningly as the man ran down the alley at a rapid pace.  The blood rushing to her head was making her feel a little woozy when her abductor halted abruptly and twitched his shoulder.  Kate flew from it and landed on her backside.  Dust rose up around her in a cloud.

   Her attacker was almost stunningly ugly.  But, Kate reflected as he pulled out a long knife from his robes, most criminals don't become criminals because they look like Clark Gable.

   "Stay," he ordered, waving the knife in a threatening manner.  Keeping his eyes – and the knife – on her, he reached forward and snatched her handbag off her arm.  By some miracle it hadn't fallen off during their crazy exit of the coffee shop.  The man fumbled one-handedly with the clasp for a moment before using the knife-blade to neatly slash through the cloth at the bottom.  For such a weedy, creepy little guy, he obviously knew how to use his weapon.  It wasn't an encouraging concept.  Kate scurried backwards like a crab until she hit the wall of the ally, and stood, ready to run.

   The weedy guy shook the now ruined bag and allowed its contents to fall to the ground.  Passport, notebook, pencils, bill-fold, a map, the Baedeker's Guide, lipstick, and various slips of paper all fell into the dirt.  He kicked at them with his foot.  He appeared to be looking for something – and not her money, either.  "_La_!" He shouted angrily, and began to approach Kate where she stood flattened against the wall.  She got an earful of furious, incomprehensible Arabic.  She did catch one thing, however.  A name.

  He continued to approach.  "The words!  Where have you the words!" he shouted.  With effort she managed to raise her eyes from the knife to her attacker's face, hoping that a little reason could avoid any violence.  She allowed her face to crumple and tried to look helpless.  It didn't take a whole lot of effort.  

   His eyes were nearly black, she noted – and rather bloodshot.  As they locked with hers, Kate attempted to convey a 'Please, don't hurt me, go ahead and take all my money instead' kind of message with her whimpering face, because there really wasn't enough time for her to attempt to hurdle the language barrier.  Besides, 'Don't kill me' wasn't likely to be listed in Baedeker's in the 'Commonly Used Phrases' chapter.  If it was, she had obviously rather optimistically over-looked it.

   His eyes widened to an almost comical degree, staring at her for a long, confusing moment.  "_Mish momken_," he whispered, reverently.  Then he dropped to his knees before her.

   Kate stared at his bowing form with horrified fascination.  He was actually petting her feet.  "What the heck…?" she muttered and tried to move her feet away.  "Stop that!"

   The man ignored her and continued his bizarre behavior, chanting something over and over.  Not one to let opportunity pass her by, she grabbed a small wooden crate from a nearby stack and smashed it over his shoulders.  He collapsed in the dirt, unconscious.  

   "Words?  What words?  What the heck is he talking about?" she muttered, quickly stepping over him to collect her things.  Her handbag was ruined, so she had to settle for tucking them in the pockets of her skirt.  The result was a somewhat lumpy figure, but considering how the rest of her probably looked, it didn't really matter.  She snatched up the Baedeker's Guide, dusted it off, and then jumped when her abductor began to move again.  She turned and ran out of the alley without looking back.

Shepheard's Hotel, Cairo 

   "And from that encounter you managed to deduce that I was involved?" Jonathan asked when she finished, looked impressed.

   "He said your name – Carnahan.  And after I'd just been warned—um…it rang a few bells, that's all."

   Jonathan frowned at the slip-up, but didn't comment.  Had tour guides finally started incorporating a warning against him in their lectures?  Well, wouldn't Evie be impressed when she heard.  "How did you time your rescue so well?  Arriving not a moment too late to save my face from being pounded in – quite the trick, that."

   "I knew that your sister was Evelyn O'Connell, and than she was at the museum, and so I just figured that would be a good place to start looking.  As for saving you…complete accident."  She smiled, then looked slightly stricken as she replayed her words.  "Not that I wouldn't have tried to stop those men, but I didn't—"

   "Quite alright.  I understand," he said, waving it off.

   Kate thought he looked rather sad for a moment, and suddenly had a great amount of difficulty in finding the infamous playboy in the man across from her.

   Not that she would let that get in the way of figuring out what exactly was going on.  She waited a moment before shooting him an expectant look, and he sighed.  "Are you certain you don't want something stronger," he asked her, signaling to the waiter.  "Because you really may need it."

   "No thanks.  I'm still drinking this," she answered sedately.  He fidgeted in his chair, and Kate prepared herself for a story she knew without a doubt she wouldn't like.

TBC…


	3. Reasons Why

The Papyrus of Nebt-Setau, Chapter 3  
  
By Len  
  
Notes: First of all, I have some thanks and shout-outs to give. Firstly, to Jennifer Lee and Liselle, for their consistent feedback and kindness. Jennifer Lee writes the best Jonathan I've ever seen, and Liselle not only writes him wonderfully, but has very much managed to catch the playfulness and fun of the character and the movies "from whence he came". You ladies are truly a joy to read.  
  
Secondly, major thanks to all the others who have reviewed so far – feedback really, truly does make me write faster: slobuesa, Tia, Sweet Dreamer, Deana (you'll have a prezzie in part 4!), Celine and Quinn – you guys all rock!  
  
More notes: As pointed out by the reviewer 'arm' RE chapter 2: Rick does not, in fact, have blond hair. I apologize, and will remedy this mistake as soon as possible.  
  
Still more notes: now that we get into the juicy stuff, certain inaccuracies will probably appear. They are either the result of a character's opinion or my own ignorance, so please, Egyptology buffs – bear with me.  
  
Feedback: Heck yeah!  
  
  
  
  
  
~Chapter Three~  
  
Jonathan's Story  
  
Previously, The Pink Hippo  
  
Imad ad-Din district, Cairo  
  
  
  
The Pink Hippo could well have been any nightclub in the Middle East. The décor was a sort of generic Arabian with bits of Imperialistic Britain thrown in to make the British servicemen more comfortable while they served their country in kasbahs around the world. Smoke was heavy in the air, and a distant jukebox was predictably playing 'As Time Goes By'. Uniformed officers, on leave from Fort Brydon, swayed with a few of the more lovely expatriates, and Jonathan ignored it all. He was instead trying (with limited success) to retain his poker face. He glanced around the card table in an effort to distract himself from his near unbelievable luck.  
  
  
  
Normally, that should raise his suspicions. Not that he was a terrible card player – it was only that he wasn't, as a rule, a terribly lucky one. However, tonight he was in possession of the lion's share of the pot, and his fellow players were beginning to get nervous.  
  
  
  
Willy, the dealer for the evening, watched over them all with an eagle eye – although it was doubtful he was doing so in an effort to prevent dishonesty. If the truth were known, Jonathan thought that Willy would only rat someone out if there were a chance that this would then result in some amount of bloodletting. Willy was one of the more unsavory expatriates, but he was also one of the better dealers in the city. Jonathan took the offered cards with a small nod of thanks, and continued looking around the table.  
  
  
  
Mohammed Fadil sat directly across from him, flanked on either side and to the rear by two men he had introduced as his younger brothers. Jonathan was given very little time to ponder over the complete lack of resemblance the three seemed to share before his attention was diverted by the sizable wad of cash the large Arab removed from the pocket of his robe. The stakes had been raised. Fadil's teeth made a brief appearance through the solid black mass of his beard, and then he, too, picked up his hand.  
  
  
  
The sight of the money was more than Corporal Reggie Fellingsworth could resist, although to Jonathan's mind, he probably should have. The man was well-known around Cairo for his fondness of the gaming table. And for his inheritance, which he was slowly but surely whittling away during his extended holiday in Egypt. Had Jonathan been a better man, he would have at least given young Reggie a word or two of advice, but….well, that would have been the pot calling the kettle black, wouldn't it? So instead, he sat at the table and watched Reggie's chin quiver slightly whenever he lost yet another round.  
  
  
  
Sometimes he disgusted even himself, Jonathan reflected cheerfully. This, however, was not one of those days. Not a single cheat, and not one person at this table was getting into something they were unaware of. Despite the fact that they were eyeing him with distrust and just generally getting themselves in a lather over the fact that he now possessed most of their money, the two men who remained for this round were here to win back their money, or go out fighting.  
  
  
  
Resisting the urge to chuckle and rub his hands together, he settled for merely shuffling disinterestedly though his cards, and dropping some money in the pot. The others followed suit. He asked the dealer for a card. The others did the same. And so went the game.  
  
  
  
It didn't take long for the cocktail-marinated young brain of Fellingsworth to realize that the stakes were getting a wee bit too high. He folded, and retreated to the bar. Fadil, on the other hand, decided to up the ante even further. His black eyes were cold as he met the gaze of the remaining Englishman. Jonathan nodded back and calmly, if a trifle unsteadily, took another sip of his whiskey. He couldn't help but wonder what inadvertent faux-pas he had committed to provoke the bearded native into going for his throat. The last time he'd seen such intent on an opponent's face was when someone had been trying to push a spear through his chest last winter…but that was a memory he didn't wish to revisit.  
  
  
  
The turbaned man flashed his teeth at him again – in a most alarming manner – and held his hand out towards one of his brothers. The younger man placed a wrapped object in it. Jonathan squinted at it curiously. "Eh?" he cleverly inquired.  
  
  
  
"I grow tired of playing for worthless scraps," Fadil announced sonorously in his accented baritone. "To make this game more interesting, I suggest we both put something of value in the center. Is this agreeable to you, Carnahan Effendi?"  
  
  
  
Jonathan's eyes remained riveted on the shrouded object throughout the speech. Visions of jewel-encrusted diadems and golden scepters flashed through his mind. He heard his name being spoken and blinked. "Sorry, I – I beg your pardon? Valuable, you say?"  
  
  
  
Fadil nodded and puffed on the cigar that protruded from his beard. "Something of antiquity. You reputation as a great archaeologist precedes you, Mister Carnahan. I am certain you possess a suitably interesting prize."  
  
  
  
No-one, not even his sister who loved him very dearly, had ever referred to his archaeological talent as "great". The fact that Fadil had alone should have alerted him to the oddness of the request. But, as is the excuse for many a staggeringly stupid behavior, the four whiskeys he'd consumed throughout the evening were beginning to accumulate. Jonathan thought for an alcohol-fogged moment before reaching into the breast pocket of his coat. He held something up in the dim light of the nightclub.  
  
  
  
"Will this do, do you think?"  
  
  
  
It was beautiful – worth a tidy sum in the antiquities market, Jonathan wagered. He'd picked it up earlier that day in one of the bazaars around town. It was a phenomenally lucky catch, if he did say so himself. The dealer he'd bought it from, Halim Haddad, had mentioned earlier that there was another buyer interested in the object. The prospective buyer had come in several times to haggle over the price. And that that prospective buyer was Englizi.  
  
  
  
To Jonathan's mind, the only people who comparison-shopped were the truly experienced foreign collectors and archaeologists. And those people were invariably European. Either way, this lovely little amulet was obviously important enough to warrant the rather extortionate price put upon it by Haddad. Smiling, Jonathan had paid the man upfront and continued home to freshen up before leaving for the club.  
  
  
  
He'd left the amulet in his coat, however, as sort of a good-luck charm. And now, even under the poor lighting of the club it shone with the richness of its materials. The lotus-shaped gold disk was only slightly dented in places from its centuries of existence, and every piece of the finely inlayed lapis lazuli remained in place. One of Fadil's brothers made a pleased murmur as the amulet was set on the table, and after another nod from the merchant he then removed the cloth from the object being offered by their party.  
  
  
  
Jonathan stared at it in surprise. A papyrus scroll. A papyrus scroll? That was the "great antiquity" Fadil was offering to up the ante? Why, the hills around Egypt were covered in papyri. Natives practically used papyri scrolls to heat their homes when wood was scarce.  
  
  
  
However, it was clearly very old and in very good condition. Oh, well. Perhaps Evie could get some use out of it. Or Alex…yes. That was it – the lad's birthday was coming up, and Jonathan was certain he'd be delighted to have a genuine archaeological artifact to muck about with…Very well. Jonathan smiled, and gestured for the game to continue. Fadil put his cards on the table, his teeth glinting. "Flush."  
  
  
  
Jonathan blinked blearily, and craned his neck to see. Sure enough, Fadil had a very tidy little flush laid out before him. Nevertheless…  
  
  
  
The Englishman placed his cards on the table, one by one, and allowed a mischievous grin to cross his features for the first time that night. "Royal Flush."  
  
  
  
Fadil and his brothers gaped in silence at the hand. Mohammed's mouth actually opened and shut several times while Jonathan reached across the table to collect his winnings. He folded the money into his bill-fold, deposited the coins in his pockets, dropped the amulet back into his coat – all in the time it took Fadil to raise hands to his shocked face. After many years at the card table, Jonathan had learned that following large wins, it was best to take what you could and make a strategic retreat as speedily as possible. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said, nodding courteously towards the Fadil brothers and Willy, tucking the papyrus under his arm, "And you, Mister Fadil. Have a delightful evening."  
  
  
  
The Arab did not return his courtesy. In fact, blatant violence flashed through his dark eyes, surprising Jonathan a great deal; most of the merchants he associated were a tad better-tempered than that. It had been a fair game – even Willy had seen that. So why, then, was one of the brothers shifting impatiently and…reaching for something in his robe?  
  
  
  
It slowly dawned on Jonathan that all was not as it appeared. Oh, for God's sake, when would he ever learn? he wondered, backing away and dashing across the crowded dance floor. Once outside, he paused briefly to collect his thoughts. Had he not been suddenly afflicted with that niggling fear between his shoulder-blades, he might have been tempted to stroll home and enjoy the evening. However, self-preservation won out over aesthetic appreciation. Leaving his hands ready by his sides, he followed the well- lit areas of traffic, stayed close to tourist areas, and jumped several fences. It was nearly four in the morning before he collapsed, weary in body and anxious in spirit, on his own bed in the house he shared with his sister's family.  
  
  
  
He was safe for now. But he did not doubt that was merely a temporary state of affairs.  
  
  
  
  
  
Shepheard's Hotel, Cairo  
  
  
  
Jonathan finished his tale, preparing for some sort of recrimination from his companion. Perhaps something along the lines of, "It serves you right." He was certain the Miss Pennington was not accustomed to the sort of life he led, or to problems he currently found himself faced with. She had freckles, for God's sake – women with freckles did not belong anywhere near the seamier side of Cairo nightlife.  
  
  
  
Instead of looking towards Kate and being faced with the inevitable look of disappointment – not that she had any reason so far to form a favorable opinion of him, he thought morosely, remembering the tourist warning she had let slip – he turned towards the entrance of the foyer. A colorful group of tourists were entering, noisy and cheerful, obviously dressed for dinner. Ah – if only life could be so simple.  
  
  
  
Kate had listened intently to Carnahan's story, her hands itching for her notebook. It was there, burning a hole through her skirt pocket the entire time, but…it would probably be a dead giveaway, writing in that now. Plus, his tale didn't have much to do with the British Museum story. Kate couldn't allow herself to become distracted now, no matter how good a storyteller Jonathan was. It wasn't as if she had anyway of knowing if *anything* he said was true, at any rate.  
  
  
  
She knew his kind well – she'd dealt with them often enough while living in New York. A big-time player pours his guts out to any sympathetic face, hoping for an easy make or some mothering. And while Kate wasn't absolutely certain that was the case here, she figured that first and foremost, a girl's got to look out for herself. That included sorting out why someone mugged her that afternoon. She had to cut through the gristle of Jonathan's numerous troubles and chew on *that* little detail before anything else.  
  
  
  
Then she followed his line of sight and sighed. Wouldn't it figure – the one lead she had, the lead that had practically fallen in her lap – well, he was currently concentrating on a blonde entering in a tight, red sequined gown. It forcefully reminded her of the reputation the man across from her possessed, and discouraged her more than just a little. It meant her secret weapon was well nigh useless in this situation.  
  
  
  
Kate had an honest face, knew it, and used it frequently. It was hard to lie to a girl who looked your first best friend or childhood crush. Jonathan Carnahan, however, went for glamorous women with showgirl looks and apparently always had. She'd seen the pictures – plunging necklines and lots of décolletage accompanied him to nearly every social event covered by newspapers. It was disheartening.  
  
  
  
Not that she cared in the slightest what kind of girls Jonathan went with, she hastened to add to her internal monologue. It was only discouraging in that she would have much greater difficulty in charming Jonathan into telling her anything about the events of last year. Difficult, but not impossible, she told herself optimistically.  
  
  
  
"A royal flush, huh?"  
  
  
  
Jonathan looked back at Kate, surprised that *that* was the particular she'd picked up on. She smiled at him. "Pretty spiffy, Mr. Carnahan."  
  
  
  
"Oh, it was nothing – nothing at all," he replied, grinning delightedly at her. "Luck was in my favor. It could have just as easily been Fadil who won the round, really."  
  
  
  
"But, still…"  
  
  
  
Miss Pennington was looking at him, evidently quite impressed with something as trifling as winning a card game. The idea was preposterous enough to raise his suspicions again, and he noticed that she was tapping the fingers of her right hand on the tabletop. A nervous gesture? Or an impatient one? To be on the safe side, he looked quickly around the lobby to assure himself that there wasn't someone there waiting in ambush for her to finish this conversation. The lobby remained empty, save themselves and a scattering of people on their way towards the terrace dining room. And none of that bunch looked particularly villainous. Then again, you could never be too careful…  
  
  
  
"Yes, well…that's essentially what's happened so far, Miss Pennington," he said, bringing himself back to the matter at hand. "And I apologize again for inadvertently involving you – if there's anything I can do—"  
  
  
  
"That's not everything that's happened so far," Kate pointed out, interrupting him yet again mid-babble. Her brow was furrowed in thought. "It can't have been. It doesn't add up."  
  
  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
  
  
"The story – so you won this papyrus in a poker game – that's swell. But what's that got to do with the weedy guy who hauled me into the alley? Or those big lugs from the Museum? Or your broken ribs?"  
  
  
  
"They're not broken!" he objected with a touch of offended manly pride. "Bruised is all. And as for the rest…I didn't already mention the rest?" Jonathan asked hopefully.  
  
  
  
Katherine smiled crookedly. "Sorry."  
  
  
  
Jonathan took a deep breath, preparing to launch into another tale. "Very well, then. Let me begin at the beginning—"  
  
  
  
"How about we just stick to the pertinent facts, instead?" Miss Pennington suggested. She raised the back of her hand to her mouth in a lady-like attempt to hide a yawn. The enticing aroma of dinner that drifted through the hotel was reminding her of the late hour, and of the fact that she had been traveling for several days. She was experienced in all-night parties and deadlines and such, but there had simply been too much happening in too short a period for her to take it all in.  
  
  
  
"Er…certainly."  
  
  
  
"Your ribs. I'm guessing that wasn't an accident."  
  
  
  
Jonathan looked across the table at her where she sat, calm and collected, when any other woman of his acquaintance save his sister would probably be having a minor attack of hysterics – or fanning themselves at the very least. Kate merely blinked sleepy golden-green eyes and waited for him to continue.  
  
  
  
"The ribs? No. No, that wasn't an accident. Well, perhaps the first couple blows were accidents, but I feel fairly certain that the rest was calculated."  
  
  
  
"Somebody beat you up?" Kate said incredulously, loosing that cool for a moment. "Why would anybody…" Jonathan simply looked at her expectantly. She closed her mouth. "Oh. Fadil?"  
  
  
  
"That's exactly what I thought, actually, Miss Pennington. If I've ever seen murder in a man's eyes…but let's not get poetic. Up until last night, I believed Fadil was the most immediate person to wish me harm. Then Abdul El- Bassim's lad's showed up at the nightclub and pulled me out back to chat."  
  
  
  
"Not the Pink Hippo again!"  
  
  
  
"Oh, no – I thought it wise to steer clear of that rat-trap for a while – just until the dust settled. I was at the Sand Bar last night."  
  
  
  
"The Sand Bar? Cute."  
  
  
  
"The owner apparently thought so," Jonathan agreed. "And…where was I? Ah, yes. Naturally, I refused to accompany them to see their boss."  
  
  
  
Kate nodded. "Naturally."  
  
  
  
"They violently expressed their disapproval over this before tossing me into a stack of crates. I don't remember much after that, but when I came to a bit later, they'd cleaned out my billfold. The bloody cheek," he added, disgusted.  
  
  
  
The detachment with which he discussed it almost gave the impression that he was talking about someone else. Except that he grimaced slightly when he crossed one leg over his knee. "And you don't know what they were after?" she asked.  
  
  
  
"Well, one of the fellows mentioned something about "prizes unfortunately lost", but was rather vague about the particulars – as those types so often are. I suppose garrulousness isn't a trait favored in hired muscle…well, it's not my fault El-Bassim bet more than he was willing to lose, is it?"  
  
  
  
Kate blinked twice, and then swallowed hard before replying. Surely he couldn't possibly mean… "So you think they wanted that papyrus thing back?"  
  
  
  
Jonathan nodded. "Yes."  
  
  
  
"And you—but you – why—" she sputtered off into incomprehensibility, gaping. Jonathan looked slightly alarmed.  
  
  
  
"Miss Pennington? Are you all right? Can I get you something? A drink of some—"  
  
  
  
"Why didn't you just hand it over?!" she finally managed to choke out. "If that's what they want – just give it to them! Save yourself a few beatings, and me a few muggings? Why not?"  
  
  
  
The Englishman squirmed uncomfortably and scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "Well, I didn't exactly have it on me to just *hand over*. And besides…"  
  
  
  
"Besides?"  
  
  
  
"Well – it's the principle of the matter, isn't it? I won it, fair and square. He should learn to be more careful about what he puts on the poker table, shouldn't he?"  
  
  
  
She raised an eyebrow at his, and he had the grace to blush. "Of all the men I've ever met, you really are the most…" she trailed off, shaking her head in reluctant amazement.  
  
  
  
He grinned. "Yes, well…"  
  
  
  
"How do you know your assailants were El-Bassim's men?" Kate asked, changing the subject.  
  
  
  
"Black turbans – impractical in the heat, but terribly handy for ambushes. Plus, they all wear his symbol on a pin just here –" he gestured to a space three or four inches above his forehead, "—it's a swirly little number with lines through it. Hard to miss. It was the only thing reflecting light in that alley," he added, swallowing.  
  
  
  
Black turbans? Secret symbols? It sounded for all the world like one of the more sensational adventure novels. "Oh," she said, her mind wandering off. Adventure novels…A little light reading…A little reading before bed…a little sleep…  
  
  
  
Jonathan watched as she tried to hide another yawn. She certainly seemed to take his beating very well. He tried not to let the thought bother him. "Miss Pennington?"  
  
  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
  
  
"I suppose…you're probably wanting to rest now, eh?"  
  
  
  
"It's been a very, very long day," she agreed.  
  
  
  
"And with any luck, perhaps El-Bassim and his brutes have realized you haven't got anything at all to do with this."  
  
  
  
She smiled sleepily. "I hope so."  
  
  
  
Jonathan didn't seem to hear; he was thinking hard. "All the same…" he continued, "don't leave your room tonight. And don't leave in the morning until there are lots of people about. And put a chair under your door as soon as you get there."  
  
  
  
Despite the direness of the situation, she couldn't help but joke, "Because that trick worked *so* well today, right?"  
  
  
  
Despite the direness of the situation, he couldn't help but chuckle. "Please? If not for yourself, do it for my peace of mind, Miss Pennington."  
  
  
  
She shrugged. "Hey – I'm no hero. You can rest easy, Mr. Carnahan."  
  
  
  
"Jonathan, please. Mr. Carnahan has always been my father – and I'm *not* my father."  
  
  
  
If Kate hadn't known better, she would have thought he sounded slightly regretful. Impulsively, she held out her hand. "And I'm Kate."  
  
They shook hand, very formally. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Kate," he replied, quirking another one of his grins. She smiled back warmly.  
  
  
  
"Likewise…Jonathan."  
  
  
  
They remained like that – hand-in-hand – until a very sunburnt and slightly tipsy couple bumped into them en route to the elevator, breaking the spell. Jonathan cleared his throat, and Kate was suddenly aware of the amount of time she must have spent in the sun that day. Her face felt very warm.  
  
  
  
"You'll be…er…careful, then? Don't answer your door at all?"  
  
  
  
"I'm *always* careful. Goodnight, Jonathan," she said, and started up the stairs.  
  
  
  
Jonathan was so intrigued by her reply that her farewell completely failed to register in his mind until she was well out of hearing range. He watched as she disappeared around a bend in the staircase. "Goodnight, Kate."  
  
  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
  
  
For several minutes after bidding farewell to the pretty young American, Jonathan loitered about the lobby, irresolute. Chivalry demanded he remain or at least ensure Kate's safety by posting someone near-by. However, he was uncertain as to what, exactly, was deemed to be acceptable gentlemanly behavior by modern feminists. Not only that, but his body ached all over and the idea of a good long sleep was sounding more and more appealing. Deciding to ruminate on it a bit further, he compromised. Sort of. A bellboy was sent to stand upstairs near Kate's room, having been given several pounds as incentive. Jonathan himself headed over to the recently- installed bar of Shepheard's lounge, where he could relax a bit…not long…just until he was certain it would remain a quiet evening.  
  
  
  
He sat down in one of the tall, swiveling chair and motioned for the bartender. "I'll have a whiskey, please."  
  
  
  
The bartender nodded and moved along to fill his order. Jonathan turned to face the room, keeping an eye out for any shady-looking characters. This was a fairly tricky exercise because despite his extensive experience with such people, he was still at a loss when it came to actually picking them out of a crowd. Oh, well, absolutely – it was a *given* that villains wore black. Except when they wore red. And they were always hideously ugly and deformed – except when they were actually stunningly beautiful. The bartender delivered his drink and Jonathan picked it up, sighing. Things were always so much easier in the movies.  
  
  
  
He was just about take a drink when the bellboy he had hired rushed in, gasping for breath. "Mister Carnahan! Mister Carnahan!"  
  
  
  
"Yes?"  
  
  
  
"The Sitt – she has left her rooms!"  
  
  
  
Jonathan's eyes widened in alarm. "Has she?"  
  
  
  
"She has! She is right—"  
  
  
  
"—here, actually," the lady in question answered. Jonathan jumped out of his seat, narrowly avoiding spilling his drink.  
  
  
  
"Miss…er, Kate!" he exclaimed. He felt a bit embarrassed at having been caught still in the hotel. "You're – well, here! Is something wrong?"  
  
  
  
She climbed up onto one of the chairs and waved at the bartender eavesdropping on their conversation. "I'll have whatever he's having," she told the Egyptian, "but make it a double."  
  
  
  
Once that was accomplished and the bellboy had melted away into the workings of the hotel, she turned to Jonathan and sighed. She looked very weary indeed. "You know how we were thinking that maybe El-Bassim's goons have realized I don't have what they want?"  
  
  
  
Jonathan nodded, a feeling of dread rapidly spreading through him.  
  
  
  
"Well, we may have been wrong," she continued shakily, "Because someone ransacked my room today."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
TBC….  
  
  
  
Review and make me a very happy writer…and happy writers write more! 


	4. A Dignified Retreat

_AN: I'd like to thank the academy for all it's support...just kidding. I would like to thank the fine readers out there who have stuck with me and this story for four years now - no kidding! And most of all, thanks to Heidi for her kindness which gave me the kick in the pants I needed to get this tricky transitional chapter out of the way._

Chapter Four

Jonathan shut his eyes tightly and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Bloody hell. Are you sure?"

"Yes," Kate said, leaning heavily against the bar next to him. "Very sure. Absolutely. Big, _gigantic_ mess. Everything's smashed. They've…everything…it's shredded…"

She seemed to be having difficulty stringing the appropriate words together, and was compensating by getting louder. The barkeeper returned with her drink and stayed behind to watch the proceedings with undisguised interest.

"…broken. Splintered. Dismembered. Destroyed. Demolished. De—wah!" she said, overbalancing.

Jonathan politely set her back on her feet. Any momentary sense of safety he'd felt since entering the lounge was long gone. He was painfully aware of the interest he and Kate were eliciting from the rest of the lounge occupants. It wasn't that he was a self-conscious man, it was that he was a self-preserving man – and he'd be willing to wager that at least one set of the eyes watching them were responsible for Kate's current distraught state. Making up his mind, Jonathan pulled out his billfold. "Here you go, my good man." The money landed next to her nearly untouched drink, and by the time the barkeeper moved forward to retrieve it they were already gone - with a half-full bottle of whiskey Jonathan had managed, in his inimitable way, to acquire. He felt he might have a need of it later.

They paused in the lobby; two disreputable-looking and drunken-smelling islands in a river of dinner finery. A matronly-looking group of women paused to look at them disapprovingly, and began to whisper amongst themselves. He smiled broadly at them and saluted them with the whiskey bottle. He honestly was beginning to despise the whole damn hotel.

Half enveloped by the blue taffeta sleeves of one of the diners, Kate came to her senses. "I think I'm suffocating," she said, taking hold of Jonathan's arm. He appeared to be looking for a path out of the crush. Suddenly, Kate had an idea.

"We should get out of here, right?"

"It might be a good idea to find someplace quieter," Jonathan agreed.

"Why not my room?" she said. "They wouldn't think to look for us there, would they?"

Jonathan looked at his companion as if she had just suggested he pull his money out of the stock market. "Er…actually, that's rather clever," he admitted. After all, wasn't there an old saying of some sort – 'the safest place from danger is at its heart'? If not, he decided to coin it himself. It was just nonsensical enough to be terribly heartening.

Taking a path between the wall and a parade of very large ladies, they darted up the stairs. Kate hoped the women's skirts had been adequately voluminous to disguise she and Jonathan's escape.

When they reached number 217, the door swung open under the touch of his hand. He was of half a mind to question the wisdom of leaving the door unlocked in such a busy hotel when he caught sight of the room's contents. Ah. Fair enough.

The bed had been designed to be the centerpiece of the room – wildly exotic with mahogany bedposts and mosquito netting, the thin coverlet woven to imitate Bedouin ceremonial blankets.

It was now in tatters. The mattress had been pulled up and torn – it's stuffing littered the floor. The feather pillows were disemboweled, and perhaps the most frightening of all was the mosquito netting. It was half torn from its ceiling frame and slashed into ribbons. The material seemed almost ghostly; it stirred silently in the night breeze that drifted through the open window.

There was no purpose to such destruction. Anyone who searched the room could have torn up the mattress and upended all of the bureau drawers. But the rest…it just reflected a kind of rage in the intruder that was chilling. If Kate had been in the room at the time…he shuddered at the thought.

Jonathan looked at the very much alive Kate. She had begun picking things up and putting them back down again. "This is a disaster," she moaned. "There's hardly anything left in one piece. How on earth did they figure out where I was staying?"

"You're an American and a woman," he said, putting a chair the right way up and sitting gingerly in it. It cracked loudly, but held. "Your respectable options are limited – and it's obvious you _are_ respectable."

Kate raised an eyebrow. "Of course."

"Nor would it take long to inquire after you at the hotels around the city."

"But how would they know _who_ to inquire after?" she pointed out. "I didn't exactly introduce myself to that thug. No…there must be something—Oh!"

He jumped, just on principle. The chair cracked again. "What?"

"The hotel – they gave me a carbon copy of the receipt I signed when I checked in. I put it in my purse."

"Which was destroyed," he finished.

"Exactly. So I put everything in my pockets. Here – hold this."

Jonathan held his hands out obediently, and soon they were overflowing with…things. At the top of the pile was a tube of lipstick and a guidebook. He struggled to keep the lot from falling onto the debris-strewn floor.

"That's what I thought. It's not there," she said.

"There's one question answered, then," he said.

"So I guess now I should be asking 'what's next'? Because I can't stay in this room tonight." Kate said, and retrieved a suitcase from behind the door. It had, remarkably, escaped unscathed.

He watched her pick up books and put them in the case. "No," he agreed.

"…but on the up side to all of this," she said, continuing, "they've already been here and trashed the place, so it's probably not _too_ dangerous to be here now, right? Lightning never strikes twice, and all that –"

"Well, actually—"

"—so if I had to chose between here and say, the Winter Palace—"

"See, it's not _quite_ that simple—"

"—and really much cheaper than _that_ hotel, anyway—"

"That's true, but—"

"—just ask the manager downstairs for a new room, and—"

"Katherine!" he said.

Kate blinked at him. "Why are you yelling?"

Jonathan opened his mouth, then changed his mind and closed it again. Instead he handed her a hairbrush from the floor.

"Thank you," Kate said.

"You're welcome," he said. "Kate – these fellows that are making a nuisance of themselves – they're very serious about their work. Deadly, even."

Despite her efforts to put up a brave front, he saw her shoulders slump a little. "I know. At least, I'm beginning to suspect…"

"Maybe we ought – it's really up to you, of course – but…they _will_ find us. El-Bassim is a tricky bastard – beg your pardon – with eyes everywhere. Perhaps instead of trying to find someplace to hide where he won't find us, we should go someplace where it won't _matter_ if he finds us. Because he won't be able to do a thing about it – the over-compensating obese bugger," he muttered.

Kate shut her suitcase and looked at the Englishman. His brow was furrowed and he was obviously thinking furiously. A wave of helplessness washed over her, and she felt like a fool. She'd come to Egypt to nab the story of the decade, but not only had she failed to impress her subject at the time of their one and only meeting, she'd failed to extract a shred of information about her story and in fact had only succeeded in getting herself nearly killed. It was one thing to have a hoard of angry socialites and their rich daddies calling the Tribune, out for her blood – it was quite another to have a hoard of angry Egyptian criminals chasing after her, quite capable of extracting the blood with their bare hands, or…whatevers.

And what stood between her and an almost certainly painful, probably disfiguring fate? The ne'er-do-well brother of Kate's quarry. Jonathan, however, was proving to have rather exceptional self-preservation reflexes. Kate had to admit she was impressed. Either the man was used to this sort of situation, or he had hidden depths. She followed his absent stare down to the floor, to the pink brassier that lay on the tile.

He's simply used to this sort of situation, she decided, snapping up the article in question and glaring at him. Jonathan looked at her blankly for a moment, and then sighed.

"There's only one thing I can think of," he said, running a distracted hand through his increasingly unkempt hair.

He looked so morose that Kate level of alarm went up a few notches.

"What's wrong?" she asked nervously. "Are you going to turn me over to he Black Turbans and let them have their way with me?"

He cringed. "Well…"

Kate's jaw dropped. "Jonathan? What—I was kidding. Jonathan!"

"It's worse than that," he said with another terrible sigh. "But there's nothing for it. We're going to have to see my sister."

Kate was knocked speechless after that rather remarkable declaration. What kind of woman could inspire such dread in a man as laid-back as Jonathan Carnahan?

A vision of Rick O'Connell chose that moment to resurface in her mind, and Kate winced. What kind of woman could stand to be married to someone as imposing as O'Connell? Evelyn O'Connell had to be as hard as coffin nails.

She hadn't protested when Jonathan picked up the larger of her monogrammed suitcases and headed for the door. It wasn't as if she had any room to protest – she could remain at the hotel and be horribly maimed, or she could follow him home to his terrifying relatives. Kate picked up a few remaining items, shoved them in her pockets, and followed Jonathan out the door.

* * *

The sun was setting as they left the hotel, casting a golden glow on the dusty streets. The merchants they passed on their way along the _Conche de Nil_ were packing their wares into push carts and trundling off, and a few children, obviously reluctant to leave the cool relief the river provided, were climbing up from the river bank and running into nearby tenements. Despite her worries, Kate was moved.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, watching the last rays of the sun reflecting off the Nile. Jonathan looked at her, somehow surprised at this comment, coming on the heels of the day they'd just had. There was no hint of condescension or mocking in her profile; she meant what she said. At this realization, some obscure part of his psyche seemed to relax from the tight control he usually kept it under, and he graced her with a completely genuine smile.

"It is that," he agreed. "This land can be hard and cruel, but it has a certain grace borne of wisdom...It's ancient, and cruel, and beautiful."

Jonathan realized Kate was watching him with a curious expression, and regretted his lapse into eloquent loquaciousness. As the sun finally sank into the horizon, he abruptly changed the tone.

"I say, Miss Pennington - I think you're very brave for risking travel to Egypt these days. Between the Fascists and the Independance Movement, it's become quite a hazard. Why, my sister and her husband almost decided against coming out this winter – war worries them more than any of those wee beasties they find in tombs."

Kate accepted the change of pace, and smiled. 'Wee beasties', indeed. "They sound like quite the pair," she said, sincerely. A pair of what exactly she didn't elaborate, and felt only a niggle of guilt before diving into her Great White Lie. "_I_ only came to Egypt because it seemed that everyone else was leaving. It was the perfect opportunity to see Egypt as the natives do."

The explanation had sounded perfectly reasonable and so much better in her head, but when Jonathan's expression toughened – just a little – she experienced one heart-stopping moment of fear.

"Then I'm afraid you'll be disappointed," he said. "All this rumble about war has only served to rid this country of a fair number of tourists. I'm certain you've heard of the increase in British forces stationed in Egypt? Well, many are here, just outside Cairo. Living it up, too – the poor luckless buggers."

Kate relaxed a little. "Oh. Luckless? What do you mean?"

The lines around his eyes became more pronounced, and suddenly he looked older than she knew him to be. "That's one of the funny things about wars, isn't it?" he said. "They never end well – even for the victors."

"No. I suppose not."

"No." He remained thoughtful for a moment, and then threw off the gloom by waving his free hand towards the building before them. "Well! Enough of that, eh? No sense in being the voice of doom, now is there? Here we are!" he said.

And they were.

Her only impression of the house as they entered the courtyard was that it seemed to be rather sprawling. She also caught the faintest hint of jasmine and marigolds. And then Jonathan, looking furtively around, grabbed her elbow, pulled her into an alcove. Unfortunately, he was still carrying her suitcase and it banged painfully into her shin.

"Hey! What's the big—"

"Shh!"

"But—"

Jonathan fixed her with a stare. Or so she thought. It was very dark out so it was difficult to tell.

Kate waited a couple heartbeats. "Isn't this your house?" she whispered.

"No."

She drew back. "What? I thought…then what—"

"It's my sister's house. We're only waiting here until I can summon the courage to go in. Evie's going cast a kitten when she hears about _this_…"

"Coward," Kate whispered back, joking. She was beginning to see certain ridiculousness in the situation. The man was only mildly flapped when turbaned swordsmen tried to kill him, and here his own sister had him melting at the armpits.

"You've never seen a temper until you see Evie's," Jonathan shot back. Kate rolled her eyes – although the gesture was lost in the darkness – and poked him in the side until her released her. Then she tried to straighten her clothes. They'd been through rather a lot that day, and it showed.

"Oh, no!"

"What?" Jonathan asked cautiously.

"I've lost a button. From my blouse."

"How can you tell?" he asked, peering through the darkness at the approximate region of her chest.

"I can tell!"

Jonathan sighed. "You're fine."

"Only fine? Oh, that's just swell…."

"A paragon of maidenly beauty, an earthbound Venus….a choice bit of calico…?" he tried.

"Oh, knock it off, Jonathan. I wasn't fishing for compliments."

"Alright."

"I wasn't!" she insisted quietly. "You've just gone and made me nervous is all. Thanks awfully."

Jonathan chuckled. "Glad to be of service. We are a sad lot, eh? Lets get inside before one of us is tempted to high-tail it into the desert."

"Good idea."

"Yes."

"I meant the 'high-tailing it' part."

"Ye – what?"

"Only joking." Kate gestured at Jonathan – an action she promptly realized he probably couldn't see her well, anyway. "Right – you go first."

"What? Oh, right."

Kate moved out of the way so he could pass, and then followed a distance behind him. This wasn't how she had wanted her first meeting with the famous Egyptologist to go. Not at all. She'd planned on winning her way into their confidence, convincing Evelyn O'Connell that when it came to making her findings known to the world, Katherine Pennington was just the woman for the job.

Instead she'd be turning up on her doorstep at ten o'clock at night with Dr. O'Connell's erstwhile brother, both with whiskey on their breaths, looking like they'd spent the last couple hours cutting up a rug at the nearest hotspot.

They approached the door. If this were a talkie, Jonathan imagined that the suspenseful organ music would begin about now. Beside him, Kate looked like she was carrying on a conversation inside her head. He chuckled again and then tried to find his key.

It wasn't in his trouser pockets. Or in his coat pockets. Or, just for kicks and giggles, in his wallet.

Because…where _was_ his wallet?

"Oh, hell," he murmured, and rapped on the door.

Kate shuffled slightly behind him. Jonathan didn't blame her. If he could find someone larger to hide behind, he certainly would.

The oddly solid front door swung open, and Rick O'Connell stood in the doorway. His hair was on end and the first couple buttons of his shirt were undone. Jonathan thought he looked a little distracted – Evie was probably driving him crackers again. "Good evening, old fellow!" Jonathan said jovially. "I seem to have misplaced my key."

O'Connell looked at them both suspiciously. Again. He gave Kate the once-over – probably trying to determine if the girl had any weapons on her, Jonathan thought – before turning his stare back to his brother-in-law. "You want to tell me what that was all about this afternoon, Jonathan?" he asked.

Jonathan waved it off. "Oh, that? Oh, it was nothing – just a minor difference of opinion. May we come in? Lovely. Thanks."

Grabbing Kate's elbow, he tugged her around his brother-in-law and into a small foyer.

The house was constructed with mud bricks – this explained the horizontal rather than vertical architecture, Kate thought – and the plastered walls were in good condition, decorated by framed maps and a large tapestry. Rows of small wooden crates scattered about created not only an unsettled look, but also a hazard. They were the perfect size for tripping over, which O'Connell did after shutting the door. He swore and kicked at the culprit.

"Damn box. Damn books. Break my damn foot. Weigh a Goddamn _ton_…"

"Rick, don't swear!" a new voice called out.

Rick ignored the admonishment. "Evelyn, honey – your brother's home!"

"What! Wait – Jonathan, you stay right there! I've got a bone to pick with you!"

"Oh dear," Jonathan said. Kate braced herself.

A moment later, a brunette woman appeared. "What do you mean, causing a ruckus and then disappearing into thin air?" she said, jabbing a finger towards Jonathan. "We were worried sick! I will simply never understand how you can just pretend nothing happened, after all that hubbub at the museum, when someone might have been…oh!" Jonathan's sister suddenly noticed Kate standing to one side. She curtailed her lecture. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I didn't know my brother had a friend with him," she said, casting a reproachful look at said brother. Jonathan realized that this marked the first time in his life that Evie was polite to one of his acquaintances. In made him curiously uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and began.

"Sorry, Evie – but you know how it is…" he said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. "This is Katherine Pennington. I met her at the bazaar today, and we've since become fast friends."

Kate shook the archaeologist's hand. "I'm so sorry – I don't mean to intrude."

She didn't look as Kate had expected, that was for certain. For one thing, Dr. O'Connell was obviously expecting a child. She was also dressed in a lightweight summer frock; there wasn't a single pith helmet or khaki vest in sight. And she didn't really look much like her brother at all.

"Oh, rubbish," Dr. O'Connell said, smiling crookedly. Kate amended her opinion – that smile was definitely a family trait. "You're not imposing at all. I'm delighted to meet you – Jonathan doesn't usually _properly_ introduce us to his friends…"

Rick muttered something. It sounded to Jonathan like, "He doesn't keep them long enough," but he couldn't be sure. He just raised a quizzical eyebrow and set Kate's suitcase down. "She's had a bit of an experience today," Jonathan said, "So perhaps a drink? Or a cup of tea?"

"No, it's alright. I'm perfectly fine," Kate said.

"Are you sure?"

Kate gave him a small smile. "Crimeny, Jonathan – when a girl says she's fine, she's fine!"

"Alright, alright…"

Bereft of a way to distract himself, Jonathan looked around at his family. Including his nephew, who had arrived on the scene wearing a large nightshirt and was watching everything with bright-eyed interest.

It was obvious to Kate that Dr. O'Connell possessed the lion's share of the manners in her family. She gestured them towards an open doorway. "Of course – please come in, sit down. I'm sorry about the mess – we just arrived a few days ago. Jonathan was supposed to have helped with the unpacking today," she said to Kate, casting a reproachful glance towards her brother.

"It looks very stylish the way it, Evie – all the sharp lines of those boxes have a lovely art deco feel to them."

"They have a very _sharp_ feel to them," Rick corrected. He led the way out of the hall, limping slightly.

"Rick, darling, what have you done…" Evie asked, trailing after her husband. Kate stayed behind a moment, looking at Jonathan. He smiled encouragingly at her – it was a terrible failure. "Don't worry, Kate. My sister is very open-minded about…well, crime…and Rick isn't a bad fellow to have on one's side. Just in case something should transpire on these premises."

Kate examined his face very carefully, taking in each and every bruise and raw patch under the evening stubble. When her gaze moved to the bruise on his cheekbone, he met her eyes. They were hazel, she realized. And startlingly clear.

"Are you going to tell them what's going on?" she asked.

"No."

"No?" she said, surprised. "But if you're planning on enlisting their aide—"

"I'm not enlisting anything. I-_we_ just need some place to keep our heads down for a bit."

Kate tried to put her hands in her pockets but there was no room in them. She settled for clasping them in front of her. "You have the papyrus, don't you?"

He blinked innocently. "Eh?"

"The papyrus – where have you hidden it?"

Jonathan looked away from her eyes. "Steady on, Katie – you sound like one of the turbaned fellows. Yes, I have the papyrus."

"Then surely El-Bassim will find out where we are, won't he? Once he searches my hotel room and your hangouts again, won't he figure it out? And shouldn't your sister have some sort of warning? He'll come here to get the papyrus."

"It's not that simple…" he tried.

"Why isn't it? You have something he's quite anxious, for whatever reason, to get back. Not only that, but how do you intend to explain me?"

Jonathan smirked. "Oh, where shall I begin…?"

Kate glared a little. "Honestly, Jonathan. They're going to wonder why I'm here. Why not just tell them the whole story straight up? It'll save trouble in the long run."

"Because that's not…that's not what I do. Rather, it's what I did. But I can't anymore. They're…" he trailed off, looking into the parlor. Kate followed his gaze. The O'Connell men were moving packing crates, directed by Evelyn, who seemed to be setting up tea things. It was all somehow exotically domestic.

"…they're a family," he finished. "Evie's about to have her newest little tyke…she doesn't need my problems as well."

"Okay," Kate said. Jonathan, not expecting to be let off that easily, looked surprised until she continued. "But what happens if your problems come _looking_ for her? For any of them?"

"It shan't be a problem, m'dear," he said, trying to remain jocular. "I happen to be singularly and uncomfortably familiar with the ways of El-Bassim. I'll give him a day to regroup. By then, he'll be so annoyed with me that when I make a ruckus leaving town, he won't be able to resist following me."

"But you'll be killed!" Kate exclaimed. Then she stopped. "Wait, what about me? Do I just hide under the nearest rock while they shoot you full of holes?"

"Of course not, dear girl. You'll be snug as a bug here in Cairo. You'll get your chance to see the city, the pyramids, just as you wanted. You'll have a wonderful time. I'm sure if you'd like, Evie or my nephew would give you a tour of the Museum."

Kate was suddenly and illogically furious. "Stop patronizing me, Jonathan. You're going to just leave me in a safe place like I'm some sort of automobile, while you go off to draw their fire? I had no idea you were so…so…_idiotically_ noble!"

Jonathan's jaw set as if she'd just insulted his mother. "Now see here, Kate—"

"Jonathan," Evelyn called from the study. "Are you going to invite your guest to sit, or are you going to make her stand out in the hall all night?"

Kate stared defiantly at Jonathan. He stared right back, and then sighed. "Sorry, Evie. Where are my manners? Come in and have a seat, Miss Pennington. Have a cup of tea."

The four adults (for Alex soon retreated to the haven of his room when he realized the evening's excitement was over) settled into cluttered sitting room to chat. With practiced skill, Jonathan deflected any queries about the day's activities, and the conversation settled amiably into inconsequential topics. When Evie finally showed Kate to her room, it was nearly midnight, and she was beyond exhausted.

Jonathan hadn't met her eyes when he'd bid her goodnight, she realized as she lay in a borrowed nightgown between mothball-scented sheets. Surely he wouldn't try something tonight, would he? She'd have find someway of extracting a promise from him not to go haring off into the desert on his own. After all, she was involved now, too…and she had to admit that all danger aside, this was much more exciting than writing about moldy mummies…Perhaps an expose on Egypt's criminal underworld would be better for her first freelance article…? Or maybe she should pack it all in and go back home to Portland. At least there, a girl didn't have to worry about being accosted in broad daylight…

And with that cheerful thought, sleep finally overcame her.

TBC...

In a little chapter I like to dramatically refer to as "The Coming Storm".

Please review.


	5. Another Abduction?

Chapter 5

The next day dawned clear and fresh, and it was the sounds of masculine laughter and automobiles that roused Kate from slumber. Through the small keyhole window opposite her bed, she could see sunlight streaking pink across the early sky. She stretched, feeling luxurious and comfortable on the spare bed. Propping herself up, she examined her surroundings for the first time in daylight.

There wasn't actually a great deal. The majority of the O'Connell's winter season supplies must be sitting in the hall, she thought. However, the collection of goods in the spare room was both eclectic and esoteric. A rolled up canvas cloth – probably a tent or a tarp – was propped up under the window. A collection of shovels and pick-axes, along with survey polls and flags was in the corner. A battered black Singer sewing machine sat on a folding card table next to a washbasin and a clean towel Dr. O'Connell had thoughtfully left behind the night before. Crawling out of bed to examine further, Kate also discovered a strong-smelling bar of soap and a small tin of rose talc.

"I don't understand Jonathan," she said to herself, looking at the items. "I think his relatives are lovely." Kate picked up a flowered sundress she found draped on the end of the bed and held it against herself. The style was at least six years out of date – if Kate had learned anything during her stint on the society circuit, she'd learned fashions – which was quite fortunate because Kate was about half a foot shorter than Dr. O'Connell. She would have looked ridiculous in a dress with a longer, more modern hemline.

Childish laughter outside her window prompted Kate to speed up her morning ablutions. She hated to the last one down in the mornings. Washing off as much of the dust as she could from her face and person, she donned the sundress and tried to tame her hair with two of the combs that had escaped destruction.

"Good enough," she said, patting the 'do, and went to find the others.

The first person she encountered was Rick O'Connell, who was seated in an armchair, scowling at the front page of the newspaper. "Politicians," he explained, catching Kate's apprehensive expression. The man was rather frightening. "All fired up about going off to fight another war, it looks like. Although they're not coming right out and saying so, of course. Just pussyfooting around saying things like "Economical expediency", just like the last time. As if the last war did any good."

Kate took a seat on the settee. "You don't believe Adolf Hitler is a threat?"

"Hitler is a nut with a bone to pick. If we're worried about what he's getting up to, why not send someone to go drop a rock on his head, and be done with it? I'll tell you why," he continued, cutting Kate off. "Because people like Chamberlain get a kick out of playing soldiers, that's why."

"But people are dying, Mr. O'Connell…"

"In Germany. Let them deal with it. It's not our responsibility."

She grit her teeth. Suddenly, Rick O'Connell wasn't as scary as she'd first believed. Scarred, yes. But they were scars Kate had seen before, in other men. "As a member of humanity, I would say it's everyone's responsibility. Those people are dying for no other reason than they don't agree with the Furrer. Why shouldn't we, as citizens of a world where we don't live with that fear, at least raise public outcry?"

Rick set his paper down, and gave her a curious grimacing smile. "We should. Sister, I don't know what you're doing hanging around with Jonathan, but you're too smart to be led around by him for long. Let me cut it short for you – whatever he promised you ain't true. He's not heir to the throne, he's not a secret millionaire. Hell, he's hardly got a dime. So if you're hoping to get hitched to him and get yourself a title that'll impress the folks back home, go for it. But you'll be poor as church mice."

Kate got to her feet, her face flushed. "Wh—really, Mr. O'Connell. You've got the wrong end of the stick on that one, although I _do_ thank you for warning. I believe I'll go for walk." She huffed towards the door, but changed her mind and turned in the doorway.

"But please allow me to cut it short for _you_, Mr. O'Connell – Mr. Carnahan promised me nothing. I found myself in a tough spot, and he's very kindly helping me get out of it. I have no designs on him, nor he on me." She almost added 'So chew on _that_,' but decided that prudence was the better part of valor, and fled to the garden.

* * *

Which is where Jonathan found her ten minutes later, looking all the world like she wished the bougainvillea she sat beside would grow teeth and swallow her. "Good morning, Katie!" he said jovially. "Don't you look a picture, sitting there with the flowers." When she didn't respond, he sat down beside her on the bench. "Goodness, you act as though your cat had died."

She unclasped her hands. Jonathan could make out the outline of fingers on the backs of them, suggested she'd clasped them too tightly, "I wish I could just keep my mouth shut. It gets me into such trouble…"

"Is something the matter?"

"I've just had a bit of a set-to with your brother-in-law, and I'm afraid he'd like to put me out of his house."

"Really?" Jonathan said, looking pleased. "What on Earth could you have said to annoy him?"

"Well, he was reading the newspaper, and said as how the Germans should deal with their own problems and the rest of the world should stay out of it. Which is ridiculous, because if…oh, forget it. I don't mean to get into it again. I suppose he had a terrible time in the War, and isn't too keen about seeing another one. Was he in the War, do you know?"

The War. Jonathan found it odd to think of it without feeling the urge to down a stiff drink or three. "I shouldn't think so. He'd have been too young to join up – he's five years younger than I am, and I was only _just_ old enough to enlist." The 'lucky me' was not spoken, but was very much implied. "Though he was a Legionnaire, I believe."

"Oh." They sat silently for a moment. A bird of some feather squawked unmusically behind them. "It's just that I've got cousins in Germany, you see. They're trying to immigrate to America, but the new government has made it so difficult…"

"Ah. Did you tell Rick that?"

"No."

"He's not a bad sort, Katie. Just grumpy in the mornings. He won't throw you out, don't fret." Jonathan took her hands to help her stand. If he held them a bit longer than was strictly necessary, neither of them noticed.

"He also implied that we were…involved," Kate said. "That you had tricked me, or I had tricked you – I can't remember which – into some seedy mercenary romance."

Jonathan dropped her hands. "Why, that blighter! I must have a word with my dear brother-in-law…"

"No, Jonathan, don't," Kate interrupted, grabbing his sleeve before he stormed off. "I didn't tell you that to make you angry. I just wanted you to know what he thinks of me. We have to tell them something – for all they know I've tricked my way into an invitation and am here to steal the silver."

"We haven't got any silver," Jonathan said, diverted.

"_Jonathan_…"

"Oh, alright. I'll tell them…something. But after breakfast. I dislike being trounced on an empty stomach."

It was actually _during_ breakfast that Jonathan spun a tale of such ridiculousness that his relatives actually swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. Kate nearly choked on her fried-egg-on-toast when Jonathan began to describe her dishabille – creamy white shoulders under torn dress – and the brute that had broken into her room while she napped, intent on doing her an injury. The heroic battle that then raged as Jonathan (who'd been conveniently passing by her room and was alerted by her terrified screaming) fought the intruder off also explained why her belonging were almost entirely destroyed.

It took a great deal of effort not to applaud when he finally fell silent, but Kate managed. Alex O'Connell was the first to recover from the tale, requesting that his uncle teach him the moves he'd used to "beat up the thug". Jonathan had the grace to flush faintly, and told Alex that his mother probably wouldn't approve of that particular plan.

Dr. O'Connell picked up her jaw and exchanged an alarmed look with her husband. "Of course you must stay with us as long as you need, Miss Pennington. What a dreadful thing to have happen on your first day in Egypt! I hope you won't let that color your opinion of this whole beautiful country!"

"Oh, not at all, Dr. O'Connell. There are unsavory people wherever you go. Why would Egypt be any different? I'm just grateful that Mr. Carnahan was gentleman enough to come to my assistance," Kate told her, shooting a hard look at Jonathan. She was quite determined not to let that amused smile slip out.

Fortunately for Kate, breakfast adjourned soon after this, and she and Jonathan once again escaped the confines of the house. The moment they were out of earshot, she turned to her companion and grinned delightedly. "Jonathan, that was brilliant. I can't believe you thought that up on the spot! I can't believe they believed it! I don't think I could even have _written_ that!"

"Thank you, dear lady," Jonathan replied, and swept the Panama hat off his head in a graceful gesture. "It comes with practice. Did you happen to say you were a writer?"

Kate tripped over an invisible pebble. "Er…well, yes. Of sorts. Aren't we all?" She laughed nervously. "I do a bit of scribbling now and then. I was hoping to turn this trip into a volume entitled K. N. Pennington Sails The Nile. What do you think?"

"I think I'd like to request a copy of the completed work, if I may, Miss Pennington. An authoress, eh? How thrillingly bohemian of you." He smiled at her in easy admiration.

"Thank you, although I must tell you - my Aunt Agatha is an authoress as well, and she's sadly respectable."

"Ah, well. Can't have everything, can one? I always say a thoroughly disrespectable relation or two spices life up a bit," he quipped.

Kate smiled back at Jonathan, and relaxed a little. He had in fact, thanks to her slip, hit the nail on the head. But it worked out all right. How freeing to be able to admit the truth…more or less.

While she considered her fortuitous escape, she realized Jonathan was leading her down the garden path – literally, of course. Just outside the open gate, a car was parked on the dusty street. Kate looked at Jonathan quizzically. "Are we going somewhere?"

"Yes."

"To deposit the papyrus somewhere safe?"

"No."

"To uncover information about it's fascination for El-Bassim?"

"No."

"To speak with the authorities?"

"Lord, no."

"Then…what…?"

He looked pleased with himself. "We're going sightseeing, my dear!"

Kate gaped at him.

"I didn't think you were serious," she commented, stepping out of the car. The hem of her skirt drifted up in a sudden breeze and she held it down with one hand. "This is…stunning." A great expanse of rough ground stretched around them, with only the faint outlines of the pyramids and Nile vegetation to their west. So very vast, Kate felt as if they were the last people alive.

"You came here to see Egypt, so by Jove you're going to see it. Just as I promised," Jonathan declared. Kate smiled at his exuberant manner.

"Thank you. I must admit I pictured it being more populated by sand dunes, like on those advertisements for soap."

"Ah. Well, if you're looking for sand dunes – frightful things, by the way – sand gets in all sorts of places it has no business being – they are actually to be found to the west and south," Jonathan explained, pointing that direction. Kate squinted, but could only vaguely make out the horizon, wavering in the heat of the sun.

"Egypt, due to it's lucky position of being smack-dab between the Mediterranean and Red Seas, as well as bisected by the Nile, is actually not too bad. Climate-wise, any way. The heat is something one must adjust to," he continued, eyeing Kate's flushed and gently perspiring face, "but it generally rains like clockwork. All-in-all, as m'dear sister says, not a bad place to start a civilization."

His companion nodded thoughtfully and wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. "No, I suppose not. How old is the Egyptian civilization, anyhow?"

Jonathan removed his hat, and fanned his face. "Er…since about three-thousand BC, I would say. Of course, that's when the time of Pharaohs began. Actual Egyptians were puttering around this valley for some time before then."

"You know," Kate said, turning to him in admiration, "I think you're far more clever than you let on, Jonathan." Then she winced, realizing how terrible that sounded. However, Jonathan was not at all offended. In fact, he actually looked rather anxious.

"I don't want you to believe that I've studied this, you know," he said, rushing to clarify his statements. "But when you've lived as long as I have with a household of Egyptologists, one or two things are bound to sink into the old brain-box."

They were silent for a moment, watching the sun shine on the broken ground. On the cliff above them, a goatherd shuffled his animals away from the edge, and disappeared from sight.

"Besides," Jonathan finally said, "it's never a good idea to let people know you've got a marble or two rolling about upstairs."

"Why not?"

"Because then people _expect_ things," he said, sounding as though the answer should be obvious. "You're expected to get an honest job, marry a sensible woman, and settle down into a dismal life of doddering boredom."

Kate hid her smile by looking down towards the river. "Put like that, I suppose you're right. It _would_ be dreadful."

"Yes. Well." Jonathan clapped his hat back on his head and rubbed his hands together. "Why would any sensible person want that? I'm free as a bird, coming and going as I please…free to stay out all hours or spend all day showing a pretty girl about."

Kate smiled faintly at the sideways compliment, intent on the scenery. "I am grateful that you have the time, certainly. What's going on over there?" she asked, pointing to the south. Through the swimming heat on the horizon, the outlines of a small city of tents and vehicles were visible. Jonathan squinted into the distance, trying to make it out.

"Probably a dig of some sort. I haven't heard that anyone was digging in the area lately, but this whole country is being perpetually excavated. No doubt some egghead from Cambridge or Harvard has located a series of small walls."

"Oh?" Kate's sense of curiosity perked up a bit, and she would have suggested paying the mystery dig a visit, if it hadn't been so damned hot, and the dig didn't look to be miles and miles away. Her hair stuck to her forehead, and she glanced at Jonathan to see how he was coping with the brutal mid-morning heat. She was nonplussed to see that he didn't even seem to notice the temperature. Resplendent in a pressed linen suit, missing his hat, he hardly seemed to be perspiring at all. In fact, against the bright azure sky, he cut quite a dashing figure. And, Kate thought, knowing what she did of his reputation, she was dead certain that she was not the first woman to think so.

"Across the river is Saqquara…known as the step pyramid. Have you heard of it?" Jonathan asked. Kate, embarrassed at being caught in such an intense perusal, shrugged non-committedly.

"It rings some distant bells," she replied.

"Yes?" Jonathan seemed cheered at this, for some reason. "Well, we could head over in that direction, or perhaps you're feeling very brave and would like to attempt to climb a pyramid? I may even be able to gain admittance into one of the tombs in the Valley…while my name may not stand for much in the archaeological community, people are usually willing to grant my Dr. O'Connell's brother a favor or two…"

Again, Kate smiled faintly. It was ridiculous…she was a dumb Dora, having Jonathan go out of his way to show her a good time, and the being to hot and wimpy to enjoy it. "Sure…whichever you can recommend would be swell."

Jonathan eyed her sharply, realizing for the first time that she looked a little faint from the heat. "It suddenly occurs to me, m'dear, that you're hardly dressed for a good hearty exploration. May I suggest that we retire to the bazaars to remedy this, and then continue on with the tour when the sun isn't quite so hot?"

"That sounds wonderful…I'm used to a slightly balmier climate," Kate agreed, turning with him and walking back to the auto. "The only trouble is that – eep! – sorry, the seat is rather hot – I've hardly a clam left. I'll have to wire home for a few extra dollars, and hope that the money arrives soon."

Jonathan waved this away. "Nonsense. I can take care of it."

"But Jonathan, Mr. O'Connell said…that is…"

"What did Rick say?" If she hadn't believed him incapable of it, Kate would have thought he sounded rather bitter.

"Only that you're a little strapped for cash at the moment, as well. I'd hate to inconvenience you."

"My dear Kate, I'll have you know that the Carnahan name still stands for something in this city. Provided we shop in the British Quarter, you can simply have your purchases billed to me, and then whenever your money arrives, you may reimburse me. If you must."

The American had a brief mental image of her Aunt Agnes tutting and muttering about "kept women". "Oh yes," she told Jonathan. "I must."

Experiencing the Bazaars and the exotic versions of staidly British establishments with Jonathan Carnahan was not something Kate felt she was likely to forget anytime soon. Jonathan was a very enthusiastic shopper – quite unlike the rest of the male population Kate had been acquainted with. This gave rise to the thought that perhaps Mr. Carnahan was a Bachelor, with a capitol 'B'…until she caught him surreptitiously examining her rear as she knelt to tie the lace on her shoe.

She raised an eyebrow. Jonathan flushed slightly and muttered something about hats, and made himself scarce.

In addition to his insistence (much to the dismay of several Very Proper shopkeepers) at choosing rather inappropriate dresses and blouses for Kate to try on, he also genuinely enjoyed the people and activity through which they traveled. Jonathan was right, Kate decided – the quiet life was simply not for him. She tried to imagine the animated man before her being forced to trudge home to a tiny flat, have a fry-up for tea, and listen to the wireless before retiring to bed. It was like seeing the black and white, silent version of a full-color Gilbert and Sullivan musical.

"Masa alkhair, Carnahan Effendi!" a young Egyptian man said to Jonathan, stepping out of the crowd. He was garbed in the traditional white galabeyah and had an equally white, toothy smile.

"Karim, old chap!" Jonathan exclaimed, grinning broadly and performing some masculine ritualistic handshake that involved much backslapping. "Masa alnur! Kaif halak?"

The young man shrugged. "Al Youm? Ana bekhair, shukran." Karim turned towards Kate, who was struggling to follow along with the conversation, wishing fervently she had thought to take her phrasebook with her. "And who is this?" he asked in careful English.

Kate extended her hand, and decided to "go for it", as her college roommate used to say. "Marhaba, Karim. Ana ismi Kate Pennington," she told him, glancing at Jonathan to see if she'd gotten it right. He smiled at her with…was that _pride_? and nodded slightly.

Karim took her proffered hand and pressed a kiss on it. Kate raised her eyebrows.

"Steady on, Karim," Jonathan said.

Karim smiled unrepentantly. "Is that not how you honor your fine English ladies? This one is truly fine, Carnahan Effendi. By her eyes I see that Bastet smiled at her birth."

Kate was about to inquire what he meant by this when he quite unexpected whipped out what appeared to be a flagrantly fake gold pitcher, and began attempting to sell it to Jonathan. Jonathan launched into a combination of annoyed English and complicated Arabic, and eventually Kate completely lost any idea of what he was saying. Karim gestured Jonathan to another covered booth and Jonathan followed him.

Watching her guide – and her purchases – disappear into the shelves of obviously faux antiquities under the red awning, Kate had to smile. Was this how Jonathan got himself into trouble? Because he simply couldn't say no?

She was so busy watching Karim's stall that only the faintest flash of black crossed the corner of her vision before she once again found herself being carted away. Her new handbag fell to the ground and spilled open. Really, Kate thought as a beefy hand closed over her mouth, this is getting tedious.

There was one thing to be said for this particular abduction – they were treating her a lot better. Rather than being flung around like a sack of onions, her captors – for they had been joined by another turbaned fellow as soon as they'd turned into the alley next to Woolworth's – merely gagged and frog-marched her. They both smelled rather vile but there were absolutely no weapons being brandished. Kate decided it was a relatively safe situation to struggle in, and so she did.

"Mrph!" she said. "Mrph erph eph!" One of her heels landed on the large captor's instep, and he howled. He did not, however, let go. "Erph eee!"

They approaching a truck – a Ford, the kind her cousins back home used to deliver eggs to the neighbors. The burlap bag shoved over her head a moment later was also familiar – her cousins used them to transport chickens. There was an irony there, she was sure of it.

Gagged and blind, Kate was more or less helpless when the two turbaned men lifted her and set her in the back of the truck on what felt and smelled like hay. She also thought that there might also be someone else back there, as her head was resting on something like shoe leather. So she was not surprised when someone very near her began to speak. What shocked her was that he spoke in English.

"You are sure this is the right woman?" Shoe Leather asked. "Did you check? Only the one is of use to us."

"Aywa," a turbaned man affirmed.

"Excellent. Drive!" he rapped on what was presumably the rear window of the truck.

The Ford rumbled to life.

As she lay in the hay, occasionally bonking her head on the wheel well when the truck passed over a particularly nasty bump, Kate considered her options. She couldn't see. She couldn't yell. Her hands were bound behind her. She had no way of knowing if Shoe Leather had a gun, and if he did, if he would use it on her. He'd said that she was of some use to…whatever they were plotting…and she had to assume that the plot required her alive.

If she passively cooperated, she may get through this ordeal alive. But Kate was not a stupid woman, nor unworldly. And even if she were, the films she'd seen clearly illustrated the universal fact that villain's lairs were not safe places to find oneself in.

At the same time, thought, she had to consider that attempting to escape from a vehicle moving at, if she made her guess, thirty miles and hour, wouldn't be much good for her either. "Erph!" she said, frustrated.

"Don't worry, my dear," Shoe Leather said, speaking loudly to be heard over the engine. "You're quite safe. Don't struggle, and you'll find you'll be greatly rewarded."

"Erph ew!" she cursed. Shoe Leather laughed – a great, booming laugh. Kate suddenly felt very, very afraid.

She knew it was a popularly held belief that when a body was faced with peril, time slowed to a near standstill. It seemed to be true. The rumble of the truck faded into the background; she could no longer hear the voices of her assailants. She was blinded and her hands tied, but suddenly the metal of the truck bed was very hot against her too-sensitive fingers, and every smell of the street was more acute than ever before. The sound of a bazaar once again reached her ears, similar to the one she'd stood in when she'd been abducted, but with a few odd changes. The voices didn't carry, quite as much. Kate deduced they'd moved several blocks, to a new bazaar with a wider, more open area.

It wasn't for nothing that she'd poured over her Baedeker's guide. Kate had always had a good memory for maps – at a very early age she'd manage to produce a nearly perfectly scaled representation of her Uncle's farm. That ability served her well now, as she sorted furiously through her memory for the streets of Cairo. She and Jonathan had been near the river, in the British sector near the Shepheard's Hotel. Currently, her head was noticeably cooler than the rest of her body, shaded by the truck cab. She deduced they were driving into the sun – east. The only large bazaar would then be….

The truck hit another hole in the road, and her nose hit the truck bed painfully. She squirmed for a better position, and ended up flipping onto her back.

Well, she thought, her hands were now pinned, but at least she wouldn't break her nose.

With loud grinding gears, the truck began to slow, and the noise of people selling and haggling grew louder. Someone quite near shouted something in Arabic to, presumably, the driver of the truck, who then shouted back. Kate heard the nervous whinny of a horse, and then the truck came to a complete halt. The voices of people were now completely surrounding the truck, and the smell of perspiration and stale native perfumes reached her nose.

A gridlock, Kate decided. It'll be now or never, she thought, and mustering every ounce of strength she had, she drew her knees up to her chest and kicked her feet up over her head. She rolled quite neatly off the back of the truck, and into the crowd of people.

Unfortunately, the remarkable escape was hindered somewhat by the fact that at the moment she left the vehicle, it began to move again. The sudden jerk caused her to miss her footing, and fall backwards. Amidst the alarmed gasps and exclamations of the shoppers surrounding her, Kate came to a complete stop at last – on her back, on something warm and squishy and smelling distressingly like a cow patty.

Someone pulled her to her feet and supported her swaying form while another removed the burlap bag. A gaggle of concerned Egyptians appeared before her eyes. "Shukran, shukran," she told them gratefully.

And then, to her eternal dismay, Kate Pennington fainted dead at their feet.

* * *

Still carrying Kate's purchases, Jonathan followed Karim into a stall of wares that he'd apparently appropriated for the day. Just the fact that he'd gone to such lengths raised considerable curiosity in Jonathan, who knew that Karim was about as much a trinket merchant as Jonathan was a dustman.

Once inside the cover of the stall, Karim carelessly tossed the vase he'd been wielding aside. "Jonathan," he said, "I have news for you, my friend."

"Naturally, if you've gone to this trouble," Jonathan replied, also in English. He generally took his linguistic cues from Karim, who was better informed than he as to what nationality of listeners his information might attract.

"It is not good news."

Jonathan smiled broadly and clapped Karim on the shoulder. "When is it ever, my good chap? I dare say that if you ever brought me glad tidings, I should die from the shock."

"It is about El-Bassim. You had great fortune at a game with him, yes?"

The Englishman nodded cautiously. "Yes…"

"He has called you a thief and a liar."

It was nothing Jonathan hadn't been called before, many times. Besides which, coming from the likes of Abdul El-Bassim, it might even be seen as a compliment, and Jonathan said as much.

Karim shook his head. "It is not. He has put a price on you, two hundred British Pounds."

Hm. That was a rather offensive amount, really, when one thought about it. "Is that _all_?"

"It is not all. He also says, once he's gotten his property back from you, the finder is free to do as he wishes with you. And my friend, you have many enemies in Egypt. Many friends," he added, lest Jonathan think Karim was up to no good, "but also many enemies."

"Ah. Well, when the offer is couched in those terms…oh,dear." Jonathan longed to pace, but the size the space they both currently occupied, combined with the weight of the things he carried made such an exercise impossible.

His Egyptian friend caught his wandering attention again with hand gesture. "That is not all."

"It's not?" Did Karim mean that he had _worse_ news?

Karim looked around nervously, as if he were afraid the wares around them were about to grow ears. "There are whispers on the street, Jonathan. The lady you are with is also sought by someone else."

"El-Bassim?"

"They say that someone else, someone more powerful than even El-Bassim, wishes her for…for…" at this, Karim's English failed him, leaving Jonathan to fill in the blank with any number of horrifying and dastardly thoughts.

"But why?" he asked. "Why Kate? She's just a tourist – she's only been here a few days. Why her?"

"I can only tell you what I hear, Jonathan," Karim said in Arabic, a little reproachfully. Jonathan sighed, and nodded.

"Of course, Karim. You are, as always, a good friend to me."

The Egyptian smiled brightly, almost managing to dispel the gloom he'd just created. "I am a good friend. And you are a good friend. You owe me five pounds."

Jonathan rolled his eyes. Juggling the packages, he retrieved his new billfold and handed over the money. In a flash, both the money and Karim were gone.

"Cheeky chap," Jonathan muttered, and made his way out of the stall. He was trying to think of something witty to say to Kate to explain why he'd allowed himself to be carted away, but when he walked out onto the street the words died on his lips.

In the middle of the street lay Kate's new handbag, it's pale blue fabric turned gray by dust. After the fuss she made over getting a new handbag, Jonathan thought, there is no way under Heaven that she would have accidentally dropped it. Added to the fact that she was nowhere in sight, Jonathan began to get a very, very bad feeling.

He turned in a circle, looking for anyone standing nearby. He caught the eye of a black-garbed woman, standing next to a stall of silk scarves. "Did you see which way the Inglisi Sitt went?"

The woman nodded. "Three men," she said in Arabic, holding up as many fingers. "They took her away in a truck. Very quickly. They went that way," she told him.

Jonathan looked in the direction she pointed. It was an alley that ran along side the Woolsworth building and turned onto a main thoroughfare. "Did they turn right or left?"

"They went straight. Straight on, straight on."

"Shukran, Sitt," he said, thanking her. "Would you hold these?" Without waiting for an answer, he deposited the parcels in her arms and took off down the alley at a run.

The alley widened a bit after several blocks into a fair-sized street. He was losing time, and losing Kate, and the knowledge gnawed at him. After ten minutes of frenzied, futile searching, he was forced to pause for breath. An elderly woman sitting in the doorway of the house he all but collapsed against took pity on him, and said she, too, had seen the truck. It had turned right at the next street, she explained in rapid Arabic, and nearly ran over her grandson's dog.

He pulled himself together and followed her directions, and was abruptly confronted with hundreds of people. It was market day, and the street was clogged men in dusty _gallabeyahs_, camels, mules, and carts. Jonathan muttered an expletive, and pushed his way determinedly through, jogging and jumping at intervals to get a better look above the crowd.

He'd gone about a block further when he entered the bazaar in Tahrir Square. Carts and stalls surrounded the statue of some historical figure, immortalized in bronze and riding a rabid-looking horse. It was chaos. Jonathan saw three trucks, none of them carrying anything but produce or children.

She was gone, he realized. Those bastards had snatched Kate out from under his very nose, and he'd let it happen. He knew first-hand what kind of techniques El-Bassim used against his enemies…what would he do to a woman? What would he do to Kate? Appalling and horrific thoughts entered his mind, causing his skin to break out in an icy sweat.

Thoroughly panicked, Jonathan almost failed to notice particularly concentrated group of chaos. It consisted mainly of women, all of whom seemed enraged about something. Knowing something about the tempers of Arabic women (his mother had been Egyptian, after all), Jonathan wagered that whatever had occurred to provoke the women to such an extent must have been great.

Curious, he stepped towards them.

"They are sons of jackals!" one young woman said in Arabic. "Does not the Koran tell men to treat women with kindness, lest he mistreat something of Allah himself?"

"It's not safe for an honest woman to be on the streets, with men such as those free to do as they please," another agreed.

An older woman, swathed in black, spoke. "Surely her husband will be looking for her. English women never travel through the city alone."

"Excuse me?" Jonathan interjected. "Please forgive my intrusion, ladies. I overheard what you were saying. You have seen the English lady?"

"Seen her?" the old woman replied. "She dropped on top of us!" Two sharp black eyes peered out from her veil. "Are you her husband?"

Jonathan had never really known his grandmother – his father being estranged from the rest of the Carnahan bunch after marrying his mother, added to the fact that as a general rule, George and Zahira Carnahan had preferred Egypt to the damp, foggy English climes. However, he could easily imagine that the woman's piercing gaze had made her a rather formidable matriarch in her own family. Jonathan felt himself beginning to squirm under it.

"Er…yes?" he asked more than answered. The eyes sized him up, considered him for a moment, and apparently decided he was worthy.

"Very good," she told him. "We have found your wife. You must take better care of her, Effendi, for a woman against three men can only do so much."

Jonathan grinned broadly. "She's here? She's all right? Oh, thank God!"

The woman beckoned him through the gaggle of women, to a well-stocked fruit stand. And there reclining against a pile of summer squash was Kate Pennington. Her hair had fallen down, her face was bruised and scratched, and she was rather comically trying to politely refuse a glass of tea by using extravagantly expressive hand gestures. But she was _there_, and she was alive.

Jonathan couldn't take his eyes off her.

He slumped in relief, the fear that had held him captive for nearly an hour leaving him so abruptly he was forced to grab one of the awning poles to remain standing.

"I say…" he began. Then Jonathan, scrubbing a hand over his face, realized he really had nothing to say. He wanted to gather her up, shake her, hold her close, give her a stern talking-to for frightening him, and beg forgiveness for failing her. All of those options would probably alarm her further, if not actually make her question his sanity. So he settled for leaving it at "I say," and felt like a proper prat.

Kate looked up at the sound of his voice. "Jonathan…" she said, eyes wide. "Boy, am I glad to see _you_." She climbed slowly to her feet, favoring her right foot. "These guys – they're nuts. They just picked me up and carted me off. In broad daylight! Right there in the middle of everybody!" Her voice ended in a squeak.

He extended a hand to steady her. "And right from under my nose," he said. As a bodyguard, he was ruddy awful. "I'm sorry."

"Don't do that," Kate mumbled, breaking away from him and rearranging the black _habarah_ over her tattered sundress. It was a robe worn by native women whenever they went outdoors, and Jonathan wondered which of the Egyptian women he'd just spoken to had donated it.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said don't," Kate repeated. "You're very…kind. Chivalrous. Maybe it's an English thing, maybe it's just _you_…but…it's not your fault whenever something bad happens. For Pity's sake, I'm a grown woman. I should be able to look after myself. I'm old enough to…" she stopped, and took a shaky breath. Her eyes were suspiciously bright. "_I'm_ sorry. I didn't even see them coming. They didn't even give me a chance to scream..."

"Well, that sort of thing happens when you're popular…" Jonathan said, trying to prompt a smile out of her. Instead, a single tear made a trail down her dirt-smudged cheek.

"Oh, my dear…"

"I don't understand what they're after, Jonathan," she said, viciously wiping the tear off with her palm. "I haven't done anything. They don't even know me!"

The Englishman sighed. "This is a very peculiar turn of events, to be sure."

He flagged down a cab, sent a local urchin after their purchases of the day, and climbed in. Katherine slipped in next to him, completely disregarding the empty seat across from him and completely undermining, once again, his resolution to behave like a gentleman.

"Oh, Jonathan," she said, sagging against him, "I'm not sure how much more I can take today. I've…I've had…" she yawned. "Such a _long_ week…you see…an' s'only Monday…"

With that, she dozed off. Jonathan looked down fondly at the curly head resting on his shoulder. Her hair was fully unbound – combs long since lost – and looked as though it had been freshly brushed. The work of those marvelous Egyptian women, do doubt. As he watched the evening sun cast copper streaks in her chestnut locks, he decided that he should definitely go out of his way to buy produce from their stall, the next time he was in the market. He was terribly gratefully that they'd been around to take care of Katie after her ordeal, especially when he'd once again made such a muddle of things.

But the day hadn't been easy on Jonathan, either. His wild sprint through the streets after Katie had upset his ribs, and no matter how enjoyable it was _imagining_ how Kate would look in the various garments he'd picked out, the actual mechanics of clothes shopping with a woman was _exhausting_.

So he leaned back against the seat of the cab, bringing her dozing form with him. And since she wasn't awake, and nobody was watching – not that he gave a damn what people would think, anyway – he picked up a lock of and breathed in the scent of her hair.

It smelled quite strongly of horse dung.

* * *

To be continued in a chapter simply entitled, "Return of the Medjai - Damn It All!"


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